i w iww i i m ii » i » ii itw w i >wiwiiw i i i i i w w ii> wwn >i> i ii iw wi wiii<iiiwitnwti i »iiiiiiitwni i w i 'itiM ii wwwnfi i iii iM«Httii-i 
 
 Trilb 
 
 mmimmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmimmimmmmimmmimmmmmmimmmmmmmmmm 
 
 George Ju Manner 
 
GEORGE DU MAUKIEK 
 
TRILBY 
 
 By George du Maurier 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 
 1901 
 
Copyright, 1894, by Harpsr & Brothers. 
 
 AH rights reaervrd. 
 
^^H'das! Je sais un chant d'' amours 
 Triste et gai^ tour d tourP^ 
 
ILLUSTKATIONS 
 
 PAQK 
 
 GEORGE DU MAURIER Frontispiece 
 
 TAFFY, ALIAS TALBOT WYNNE 4 
 
 "the laird op COCKPEN" 5 
 
 " the third he was ' little billek ' " 1 
 
 " it did one good to look at him " 9 
 
 among the old masters 13 
 
 "wistful and sweet" 17 
 
 the " rosemonde " of schubert 21 
 
 trilby's left FOOT 27 
 
 THE FLEXIBLE FLAGEOLET 31 
 
 THE BRIDGE OP ARTS 34 
 
 "THREE MUSKETEERS OF THE BRUSH" 39 
 
 TAFFY MAKES THE SALAD 43 
 
 " THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE " 47 
 
 trilby's FOREBEARS 52 
 
 TAIL-PIECE 56 
 
 "as bad as THEY MAKE 'EM " 59 
 
 "a voice HE didn't UNDERSTAND" 63 
 
 " AND SO, NO MORE " 67 
 
 " ' TWO ENGLANDERS IN ONE DAY ' " 70 
 
 "'HIMMEL! the ROOF OF YOUR MOUTH '," 73 
 
 " ' gA FERA UNE FAMEUSE CRAPULE DE MOINS !' " 77 
 
 "'at you SEEN MY FAHZER'S OLE SHOES?'" 81 
 
 TAFFY A l'eCHELLE! 85 
 
 "the FOX AND THE CROW " 89 
 
 THE LATIN QUARTER 92 
 
 CUISINE BOURGEOISE EN BOHEME 95 
 
 "the SOFT eyes" 98 
 
 ILYSSUS 101 
 
VI 
 
 PAOE 
 
 " ' voiLA l'espayce de hom ker jkr swee !'" 105 
 
 TIT FOR TAT Ill 
 
 THE HAPPY LIFE 116 
 
 "*LET MK GO, TAFFY . . ,' " . 119 
 
 " ' qu'est ce qu'il a DONC, CE LITREBILI?'" 121 
 
 REPENTANCE 125 
 
 CONFESSION 129 
 
 "all as IT USED TO be" 1,33 
 
 ''TWIN GRAY stars" 135 
 
 "an incubus" 137 
 
 the capitalist and the swell 141 
 
 " ' 1 will not ! i will not !' " 151 
 
 DODOR IN HIS GLOKY 153 
 
 hQtEL de LA ROCHEMARTEL 155 
 
 christmas eve 161 
 
 "'allons glycere! rougis mon terre. . . .'" 163 
 
 souvenir 168 
 
 "my SISTER dear" 173 
 
 a DUCAL FRENCH FIGHTING-COCK 175 
 
 "'answer me, trilby!'" 179 
 
 A CARYfl:.4riDE 180 
 
 "'les glougloux du tin a quat' sous. . . .'" 183 
 
 "'is she a £^i)r, MR. WYNNE?'" 187 
 
 "^FOND OF HIM? AREN't YOUP" 191 
 
 "so LIKE little billee " 195 
 
 '"l must take the bull by THE HORNS ' " 199 
 
 " ' TRILBY ! WHERE IS SHE ?" 203 
 
 LA SffiUR DE LITREBILI 205 
 
 "he fell a-weeping, quite desperately" 207 
 
 "the sweet MELODIC PHRASE " 211 
 
 "sorrowfully, arm in arm" 215 
 
 demoralization 225 
 
 fred walker 227 
 
 platonic love 230 
 
 " darlings, old or young " 235 
 
 "the MOON-DIAL " 237 
 
 the chairman 239 
 
 a happy dinner 245 
 
 "a-smokiin' their poipes and cigyars" 247 
 
TU 
 
 ^~'~~ FAOB 
 
 " BONJODR, SUZON !" . . 253 
 
 A HUMAN NIGHTINGALE 257 
 
 CUP-AND-BALL 263 
 
 SWEET ALICE 267 
 
 " MAY HEAVEN GO WITH HER !" 272 
 
 " ' SO MUCH FOR ALICE, TRAY ' " 277 
 
 " ' you're a thief, SIR !' " 287 
 
 " AN ATMOSPHERE OF BANK-NOTES AND GOLD " 293 
 
 "a little picture OF THE THAMES" 296 
 
 " ' AH ! THE BEAUTIFUL INTERMENT, MESSIEURS !' " 301 
 
 "PAUVRE trilby" 303 
 
 " ' JE PRONG !' " 807 
 
 "'OON PAIR DE GONG BLONG'" oil 
 
 GECKO 315 
 
 "aU CLAIR DE LA LUNE " 319 
 
 " OUVRE-MOI TA PORTE POUR L' AMOUR DE DIEU !" 322 
 
 " MALBROUCK S'EN VA-T'EN GUERRE " 325 
 
 " AUX NOUTELLES QUE j'aPPORTE, VOS BEAUX TEUZ VOXT PLEURER !" . 329 
 
 un impromptu de chopin 331 
 
 " and the remembrance of them hand in hand " 338 
 
 " ' i believe you, my boy !' " 341 
 
 "maman duchesse" 351 
 
 the cut direct 354 
 
 "petit enfant, j'aimais d'un amour tendre . . . ." 358 
 
 " ' vite ! vite ! un commissaire de police !' " 363 
 
 "l suppose you do all this kind of thing for mere amusement, 
 
 MR. WYNNE?" 367 
 
 THE FIRST VIOLIN LOSES HIS TEMPER 373 
 
 "hast THOU FOUND ME, MINE ENEMY?" 375 
 
 "' OH, don't YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE, BEN BOLT?'" 377 
 
 "the LAST THEY SAW OF SVENGALl " 383 
 
 " ' THREE NICE CLEAN ENGLISHMEN ' " 386 
 
 " P(ENA PEDE CLAUDO " 389 
 
 " THE OLD STUDIO " o 391 
 
 " ' £T MAINTENANT DORS, MA MIGNONNE !' " 395 
 
 "taffy WAS ALLOWED TO SEE GECKO " 400 
 
 A FAIR BLANCHISSEUSE DE FIN 403 
 
 A THRONE IN BOHEMIA 407 
 
 "'OH, MY POOR girl! MY POOR GIRL !' " 410 
 
VUl 
 
 PAG 
 
 *" AH, POOR MAMMA ! SHE WAS EVKR SO MUCH PRETTIER THAN THAT !' " 41( 
 
 '"to sing like that is to prayP" 421 
 
 " ' THE REMEMBRANCE OF THAT PALM SUNDAY !' " 421 
 
 FOR GECKO 43: 
 
 "OUT OF THE MYSTERIOUS EAST" 43! 
 
 " ' SVENGALI ! . . . SVENGALI ! . . . SVENGALI ! . . . '" 43' 
 
 " TOUT VIENT A POINT, POUR QUI SAIT ATTENDRE !" 43! 
 
 "l, PETE COELESTES. ..." 44] 
 
 "PETITS BONHEURS DE CONTREBANDE " 44' 
 
 ENTER GECKO 45] 
 
 '"we TOOK HER VOICE NOTE BY NOTE'" 45f 
 
 THE nightingale's FIRST SONG 45J 
 
 "'ICH HABE OELIEBT UND GBLEBET P " 46] 
 
 TAIL-PIECS 46^ 
 
TRILBY 
 
 ffiiart jftrst 
 
 "Mimi Pinson est une blonde, 
 Uue blonde que ron counait ; 
 Elle n'a qu'iiue robe an monde, 
 Landerirette ! et qu'uu bonnet I" 
 
 It was a fine, sunny, showery day in April. 
 
 The big studio window was open at the top, and 
 let in a pleasant breeze from the northwest. Things 
 were beginning to look shipshape at last. The big 
 piano, a semi-grand by Broad wood, had arrived from 
 England by "the Little Quickness" {la Petite Vitesse, 
 as the goods trains are called in France), and lay, fresh- 
 ly tuned, alongside the eastern wall ; on the wall op- 
 posite was a panoply of foils, masks, and boxing- 
 gloves. 
 
 A trapeze, a knotted rope, and two parallel cords, 
 supporting each a ring, depended from a huge beam in 
 the ceiling. Tlie walls were of the usual dull red, re- 
 lieved by plaster casts of arms and legs and hands and 
 feet; and Dante's mask, and Michael Aiigelo's alto- 
 rilievo of Leda and the swan, and a centaur and La- 
 pith from the Elgin marbles — on none of these had 
 the dust as yet had time to settle. 
 1 
 
There were also studies in oil from the nude ; copies 
 of Titian, Rembrandt, Yelasquez, Rubens, Tintoret, 
 Leonardo da Vinci — none of the school of Botticelli, 
 Mantegna, and Co. — a firm whose merits had not as 
 yet been revealed to the many. 
 
 Along the walls, at a great height, ran a broad 
 shelf, on which were other casts in plaster, terracotta, 
 imitation bronze ; a little Theseus, a little Venus of 
 Milo, a little discobolus ; a little flayed man threaten- 
 ing high heaven (an act that seemed almost pardon- 
 able under the circumstances !) ; a lion and a boar by 
 Barye ; an anatomical figure of a horse with only one 
 leg left and no ears; a horse's head from the pedi- 
 ment of the Parthenon, earless also ; and the bust of 
 Clytie, with her beautiful low brow, her sweet Avan 
 gaze, and the ineffable forward shrug of her dear 
 shoulders that makes her bosom a nest, a rest, a pillow, 
 a refuge — to be loved and desired forever by genera- 
 tion after generation of the sons of men. 
 
 Near the stove hung a gridiron, a frying-pan, a 
 toasting-fork, and a pair of bellows. In an adjoining 
 glazed corner cupboard were plates and glasses, black- 
 handled knives, pewter spoons, and three-pronged steel 
 forks; a salad-bowl, vinegar cruets, an oil-flask, two 
 mustard-pots (English and French), and such like 
 things^all scrupulously clean. On the floor, which had 
 been stained and waxed at considerable cost, lay two 
 chetah-skins and a large Persian praying-rug. One- 
 half of it, however (under the trapeze and at the 
 farthest end from the window, beyond the model 
 throne), was covered with coarse matting, that one 
 might fence or box without slipping down and split- 
 
ting one's self in. two, or fall without breaking any 
 bones. 
 
 Two other windows of the usual French size and 
 pattern, with shutters to them and heavy curtains 
 of baize, opened east and west, to let in dawn or 
 sunset, as the case might be, or haply keep them 
 out. And there were alcoves, recesses, irregularities, 
 odd little nooks and corners, to be tilled up as time 
 wore on with endless personal knick-knacks, bibelots, 
 private properties and acquisitions — things that make 
 a place genial, homelike, and good to remember, 
 and sweet to muse upon (with fond regret) in after- 
 years. 
 
 And an immense divan spread itself in width and 
 length and delightful thickness just beneath the big 
 north window, the business window — a divan so im- 
 mense that three well-fed, well-contented Englishmen 
 could all lie lazily smoking their pipes on it at once 
 without being in each other's way, and very often 
 did! 
 
 At present one of these Englishmen — a Yorkshire- 
 man, by-the-way, called Taffy (and also the Man of 
 Blood, because he was supposed to be distantly re- 
 lated to a baronet) — was more energetically engaged. 
 Bare - armed, and in his shirt and trousers, he was 
 twirling a pair of Indian clubs round his head. His 
 face was flushed, and he was perspiring freely and 
 looked fierce. He was a very big young man, fair, 
 with kind but choleric blue eyes, and the muscles of 
 his brawny arm were strong as iron bands. 
 
 For three years he had borne her Majesty's com- 
 mission, and had been through the Crimean campaign 
 
without a scratch. He would have been one of the 
 famous six hundred in the famous charge at Bala- 
 klava but for a sprained ankle (caught pla^nng leap- 
 frog in the trenches), which kept him in hospital on 
 that momentous day. So that he lost his chance of 
 glory or the grave, and this humiliating misadventure 
 had sickened him of soldiering for life, and he never 
 quite got over it. Then, feeling within himself an ir- 
 resistible vocation for art, he had sold out ; and here 
 he was in Paris, hard at work, as we see. 
 
 He was good - looking, 
 with straight features ; but 
 I regret to say that, besides 
 his heavy plunger's mus- 
 tache, he wore an immense 
 pair of drooping auburn 
 whiskers, of the kind that 
 used to be called Piccadilly 
 weepers, and were after- 
 wards affected by Mr. Soth- 
 ern in Lord Dundreary. It 
 was a fashion to do so then 
 for such of our gilded youth 
 as could afford the time 
 (and the hair) ; the bigger 
 and fairer the whiskers, the more beautiful was 
 thought the youth ! It seems incredible in these days, 
 when even her Majesty's household brigade go about 
 with smooth cheeks and lips, like priests or play-actors. 
 
 TAFFY, ALIAS TALBOT WYNNE 
 
 "What's become of all the gold 
 Used to hang and brush their bosoms . . . ?' 
 
Another inmate of this blissful abode — Sandy, the 
 Laird of Cockpen, as he was called — sat in similarly 
 simple attire at his easel, painting at a lifelike little 
 picture of a Spanish tor- 
 eador serenading a lady 
 of high degree (in broad 
 daylight). He had never 
 been to Spain, but he had 
 a complete toreador's kit 
 — a bargain which he 
 had picked up for a mere 
 song in the Boulevard 
 du Temple— and he had 
 hired the guitar. His 
 pipe was in his mouth 
 — reversed ; for it had 
 gone out, and the ashes 
 were spilled all over his 
 trousers, where holes were often burned in this way. 
 
 Quite gratuitously, and with a pleasing Scotch ac- 
 cent, he began to declaim : 
 
 "A street there is in Paris famous 
 
 For which no rhyme our hinguage yields ; 
 Eoo Nerve ehiy Petty Shong its name is — 
 The New Street of the Little Fields. ..." 
 
 "the LAUID OF cockpen" 
 
 And then, in his keen appreciation of the immortal 
 stanza, he chuckled audibly, with a face so blithe and 
 merry and well pleased that it did one good to look at 
 him. 
 
 He also had entered life by another door. His pa- 
 rents (good, pious people in Dundee) had intended that 
 
he should be ti sohcitor, as his father and grandfather 
 had been before him. And here he was in Paris fa- 
 mous, painting toreadors, and spouting the " Ballad 
 of the Bouillabaisse," as he would often do out of 
 sheer lightness of heart — much oftener, indeed, than 
 he would say his prayers. 
 
 Kneeling on the divan, with his elbow on the win- 
 dow-sill, was a third and much younger youth. The 
 third he was " Little Billee." He had pulled down 
 the green baize blind, and was looking over the roofs 
 and chimney-pots of Paris and all about with all his 
 eyes, munching the while a roll and a savory saveloy, 
 in which there was evidence of much garlic. He ate 
 with great relish, for he was yery hungry ; he had 
 been all the morning at Carrel's studio, drawing from 
 the life. 
 
 Little Billee was small and slender, about twent}^ or 
 twenty-one, and had a straight white forehead veined 
 with blue, large dark-blue eyes, delicate, regular feat- 
 ures, and coal-black hair. He was also very graceful 
 and well built, with very small hands and feet, and 
 much better dressed than his friends, who went out 
 of their way to outdo the denizens of the quartier 
 latin in careless eccentricity of garb, and succeeded. 
 And in his winning and handsome face there was just 
 a faint suggestion of some possible very remote Jew- 
 ish ancestor — just a tinge of that strong, sturdy, irre- 
 pressible, indomitable, indelible blood which is of such 
 priceless value in diluted homoeopathic doses, like the 
 dry white Spanish wine called montijo, which is not 
 meant to be taken pure ; but without a judicious ad- 
 mixture of which no sherry can go round the world 
 
and keep its flavor intact ; or like the famous bull- 
 dog strain, which is not beautiful in itself ; and yet 
 just for lacking a little of the same no greyhound can 
 ever hope to be a champion. So, at least, I have been 
 told by wine-merchants and dog-fanciers — the most 
 veracious persons that can be. Fortunately for the 
 world, and especially for ourselves, most of us have 
 in our veins at least a minim of that precious fluid, 
 whether we know it or show it or not. Tant jpis jpour 
 les autres ! 
 
 As Little Billee munched he also gazed at the 
 busy place below — the Place St. Anatole des Arts 
 — at the old houses opposite, some of which were 
 being pulled down, no doubt 
 lest they should fall of their 
 own sweet will. In the 
 gaps between he would see 
 discolored, old, cracked, din- 
 gy walls, with mysterious 
 windows and rusty iron bal- 
 conies of great antiquity — 
 sights that set him dream- 
 ing dreams of mediasval 
 French love and wickedness 
 and crime, bygone mysteries 
 of Paris ! 
 
 One gap went right through 
 the block, and gave him a 
 
 glimpse of the river, the " Cite," and the ominous 
 old Morgue ; a little to the right rose the gray tow- 
 ers of Notre Dame de Paris into the checkered 
 April sky. Indeed, the top of nearly all Paris lay 
 
 ''/^'^ 
 
 "the third he was 
 'little billee'" 
 
before him, with a little stretch of the imagination 
 on his part ; and he gazed with a sense of novelt}'^, an 
 interest and a pleasure for which he could not have 
 found any expression in mere language. 
 
 Paris ! Paris ! ! Paris ! ! ! 
 
 The very name had always been one to conjure Avith, 
 whether he thought of it as a mere sound on the lips 
 and in the ear, or as a magical written or printed 
 word for the eye. And here Avas the thing itself at 
 last, and he, he himself, ipsissimus, in the very 
 midst of it, to live there and learn there as long as 
 he liked, and make himself the great artist lie longed 
 to be. 
 
 Then, his meal finished, he lit a pipe, and flung him- 
 self on the divan and sighed deeply, out of the over- 
 full contentment of his heart. 
 
 lie felt he had never known happiness like this, 
 never even dreamed its possibility. And yet his 
 life had been a happy one. He w^as young and 
 tender, was Little Billee ; he had never been to any 
 school, and was innocent of the world and its wicked 
 ways ; innocent of French especially, and the ways of 
 Paris and its Latin quarter. He had been brought 
 up and educated at home, had spent his boyhood 
 in London Avith his mother and sister, Avho now 
 lived in Devonshire on somewhat straitened means. 
 His father, Avho Avas dead, had been a clerk in the 
 Treasury. 
 
 He and his tAvo friends, Taffy and the Laird, had 
 taken this studio together. The Laird slept there, in a 
 small bedroom off the studio. Taffy had a bedroom 
 at the Hotel de Seine, in the street of that name. 
 
Vf 
 
 Little Billee lodged at the Hotel Corneille, in the 
 Place de TOdeon. 
 
 He looked at his two friends, and wondered if 
 any one, living or dead, had ever had such a glorious 
 pair of chums as 
 these. 
 
 Whatever they 
 did, whatever they 
 said, was simply per- 
 fect in his eyes ; they 
 were his guides and 
 philosophers as well 
 as his chums. On 
 the other hand, Taf- 
 fy and the Laird 
 were as fond of the 
 boy as they could be. 
 
 His absolute belief 
 in all they said and 
 did touched them 
 none the less that 
 they were conscious 
 of its being some- 
 what in excess of 
 their deserts. His 
 almost girlish purity 
 of mind amused and 
 
 charmed them, and they did all they could to preserve 
 it, even in the quartier latin, where purity is apt to go 
 bad if it be kept too long. 
 
 They loved him for his affectionate disposition, his 
 lively and caressing ways ; and they admired him far 
 
 IT DID ONE GOOD TO LOOK AT HIM 
 
10 
 
 more than he ever knew, for they recognized in him 
 a quickness, a keenness, a delicacy of perception, in 
 matters of form and color, a mysterious facility and 
 felicity of execution, a sense of all that was sweet and 
 beautiful in nature, and a ready power of expressing 
 it, that had not been vouchsafed to them in any such 
 generous profusion, and which, as they ungrudgingly 
 admitted to themselves and each other, amounted to 
 true genius. 
 
 And when one within the immediate circle of our 
 intimates is gifted in this abnormal fashion, we either 
 hate or love him for it, in proportion to the greatness 
 of his gift ; according to the way we are built. 
 
 So Taffy and the Laird loved Little Billee — loved 
 him very much indeed. Not but what Little Billee 
 had his faults. For instance, he didn't interest him- 
 self very warmly in other people's pictures. lie didn't 
 seem to care for tlie Laird's guitar-playing toreador, 
 nor for his serenaded lady — at all events, he never 
 said anything about them, either in praise or blame. 
 He looked at Taffy's realisms (for Taffy was a realist) 
 in silence, and nothing tries true friendship so much 
 as silence of this kind. 
 
 But, then, to make up for it, when they all three 
 went to the Louvre, he didn't seem to trouble much 
 about Titian either, or Rembrandt, or Velasquez, Ru- 
 bens, Veronese, or Leonardo. He looked at the people 
 who looked at the pictures, instead of at the pictures 
 themselves ; especially at the people who copied them, 
 the sometimes charming young lady painters — and 
 these seemed to him even more charming than they 
 really were — and he looked a great deal out of the 
 
11 
 
 Louvre windows, where there was much to be seen : 
 more Paris, for instance — Pans, of which he could 
 never have enough. 
 
 But when, surfeited with classical beauty, they all 
 three went and dined together, and Taffy and the 
 Laird said beautiful things about the old masters, and 
 quarrelled about them, he listened with deference and 
 rapt attention, and reverentially agreed with all they 
 said, and afterwards made the most delightfully funny 
 little pen-and-ink sketches of them, saying all these 
 beautiful things (which he sent to his mother and sis- 
 ter at home) ; so life-like, so real, that you could al- 
 most hear the beautiful things they said ; so beauti- 
 fully drawn that you felt the old masters couldn't 
 have drawn them better themselves ; and so irresist- 
 ibly droll that you felt that the old masters could not 
 have drawn them at all — any more than Milton could 
 have described the quarrel between Sairey Gamp and 
 Betsy Prig ; no one, in short, but Little Billee. 
 
 Little Billee took up the " Ballad of the Bouilla- 
 baisse " where the Laird had left it off, and speculated 
 on the future of himself and his friends, when he 
 should have got to forty years — an almost impossibly 
 remote future. 
 
 These speculations were interrupted by a loud knock 
 at the door, and two men came in. 
 
 First, a tall, bony individual of any age between 
 thirty and forty-five, of Jewish aspect, well-featured 
 but sinister. He was very shabby and dirty, and wore 
 a red beret and a large velveteen cloak, with a big 
 metal clasp at the collar. His thick, heavy, languid, 
 lustreless black hair fell down behind his ears on to his 
 
12 
 
 shoulders, in that musicianlike way that is so offensive 
 to the normal Englishman. He had bold, brilliant 
 black eyes, with long, heavy lids, a thin, sallow face, 
 and a beard of burnt -up black which grew almost 
 from his under eyelids ; and over it his mustache, a 
 shade lighter, fell in two long spiral twists. He went 
 by the name of Svengali, and spoke fluent French 
 with a German accent, and humorous German twists 
 and idioms, and his voice was very thin and mean and 
 harsh, and often broke into a disagreeable falsetto. 
 
 His companion was a little sw^arthy young man — a 
 gyps3% possibly — much pitted with the smallpox, and 
 also very shabby. He had large, soft, affectionate 
 brown e^^es, like a King Charles sjmniel. He had 
 small, nervous, veiny hands, with nails bitten down to 
 the quick, and carried a fiddle and a fiddlestick under 
 his arm, without a case, as though he had been play- 
 ing in the street. 
 
 " Ponchour, mes enfants," said Svengali. " Che vous 
 amcne mon ami Checko, qui choue du fiolon gomme 
 un anche !" 
 
 Little Billee, Avho adored all " sweet musicianers," 
 jumped up and made Gecko as warmly welcome as 
 he could in his early French. 
 
 " Ha ! le biuno !" exclaimed Svengali, flinging his red 
 beret on it, and his cloak on the ground. " Ch'espdre 
 qu'il est pon, et pien t'accord !" 
 
 And sitting dow^n on the music-stool, he ran up and 
 dowm the scales with that easy power, that smooth, 
 even crispness of touch, which reveal the master. 
 
 Then he fell to playing Chopin's impromptu in A 
 flat, so beautifully that Little Billee's heart went nigh 
 
AMONG THE OLD MASTERS 
 
14 
 
 to bursting with suppressed emotion and delight. He 
 had never heard any music of Chopin's before, noth- 
 ing but British provincial home-made music — melodies 
 with variations, " Annie Laurie," " The Last Rose of 
 Summer," " The Blue Bells of Scotland ;" innocent lit- 
 tle motherly and sisterly tinklings, invented to set the 
 compan}'' at their ease on festive evenings, and make 
 all-round conversation possible for shy people; who 
 fear the unaccompanied sound of their own voices, and 
 whose genial chatter always leaves off directly the 
 music ceases. 
 
 He never forgot that impromptu, which he was 
 destined to hear again one day in strange circum- 
 stances. 
 
 Then Svengali and Gecko made music together, di- 
 vinely. Little fragmentary things, sometimes con- 
 sisting but of a few bars, but these bars of such beauty 
 and meaning ! Scraps, snatches, short melodies, meant 
 to fetch, to charm immediately, or to melt or sadden 
 or madden just for a moment, and that knew just 
 when to leave off — czardas, gypsy dances, Hungarian 
 love-plaints, things little known out of eastern Europe 
 in the fifties of this century, till the Laird and Taflfy 
 were almost as wild in their enthusiasm as Little Billee 
 — a silent enthusiasm too deep for speech. And when 
 these two great artists left off to smoke, the three 
 Britishers were too much moved even for that, and 
 there was a stillness. . . . 
 
 Suddenly there came a loud knuckle-rapping at the 
 outer door, and a portentous voice of great volume, 
 and that might almost have belonged to any sex (even 
 an angel's), uttered the British milkman's yodel, " Milk 
 
15 
 
 below !" and before any one could say " Entrez," a 
 strange figure appeared, framed by the gloom of the 
 little antechamber. 
 
 It was the figure of a very tall and fully developed 
 young female, clad in the gray overcoat of a French 
 infantry soldier, continued netherwards by a short 
 striped petticoat, beneath which were visible her bare 
 wliite ankles and insteps, and slim, straight, rosy heels, 
 clean cut and smooth as the back of a razor ; her toes 
 lost themselves in a huge pair of male list slippers, 
 which made her drag her feet as she walked. 
 
 She bore herself with easy, unembarrassed grace, 
 like a person whose nerves and muscles are well in 
 tune, whose spirits are high, who has lived much in 
 the atmosphere of French studios, and feels at home 
 in it. 
 
 This strange medley of garments was surmounted 
 by a small bare head with short, thick, wavy brown 
 hair, and a very healthy young face, which could 
 scarcely be called quite beautiful at first sight, since 
 the eyes were too wide apart, the mouth too large, the 
 chin too massive, the complexion a mass of freckles. 
 Besides, you can never tell how beautiful (or how 
 ugly) a face may be till you have tried to draw it. 
 
 But a small portion of her neck, down by the collar- 
 bone, which just showed itself between the unbuttoned 
 lapels of her military coat collar, was of a delicate 
 privetlike whiteness that is never to be found on any 
 French neck, and very few English ones. Also, she 
 had a very fine brow, broad and low, with thick level 
 eyebrows much darker than her hair, a broad, bony, 
 high bridge to her short nose, and her full, broad 
 
16 
 
 cheeks were beautifully modelled. She would have 
 made a singularly handsome boy. 
 
 As the creature looked round at the assembled com- 
 pany and flashed her big white teeth at them in an 
 all-embracing smile of uncommon width and quite 
 irresistible sweetness, simplicity, and friendly trust, 
 one saw at a glance that she was out of the common 
 clever, simple, humorous, honest, brave, and kind, and 
 accustomed to be genially welcomed wherever she 
 went. Then suddenly closing the door behind her, 
 drop])ing her smile, and looking wistful and sweet, 
 with her head on one side and her arms akimbo, 
 " Ye're all English, now, aren't ye ?" she exclaimed. 
 " I heard the music, and thought I'd just come in for 
 a bit, and pass the time of day : you don't mind ? 
 Trilb}^ that's my name — Trilby O'Ferrall." 
 
 She said this in English, with an accent half Scotch 
 and certain French intonations, and in a voice so rich 
 and deep and full as almost to suggest an incipient 
 tenore robusto; and one felt instinctively that it was 
 a real pity she wasn't a boy, she would have made 
 such a jolly one. 
 
 " We're delighted, on the contrary," said Little 
 Billee, and advanced a chair for her. 
 
 But she said, ''Oh, don't mind me ; go on with the 
 music," and sat herself down cross-legged on the 
 model-throne near the piano. 
 
 As they still looked at her, curious and half embar- 
 rassed, she pulled a paper parcel containing food out 
 of one of the coat-pockets, and exclaimed : 
 
 " I'll just take a bite, if you don't object ; I'm a 
 model, you know, and it's just rung twelve — ' the rest.' 
 
' WISTFUL AND SWEET 
 
18 
 
 I'm posing for Durien the sculptor, on the next floor. 
 I pose to him for the altogether," 
 
 " The altogether ?" asked Little Billee. 
 
 " Yes — rensemhle, you know — head, hands, and feet 
 — everything — especially feet. That's my foot," she 
 said, kicking off her big slipper and stretching out the 
 limb, " It's the handsomest foot in all Paris, There's 
 only one in all Paris to match it, and here it is," and 
 she laughed heartily (like a merry peal of bells), and 
 stuck out the other. 
 
 And in truth they were astonishingly beautiful feet, 
 such as one only sees in pictures and statues — a true 
 inspiration of shape and color, all made up of deli- 
 cate lengths and subtly modulated curves and noble 
 straightnesses and happy little dimpled arrangements 
 in innocent young pink and white. 
 
 So that Little Billee, who had the quick, prehensile, 
 aesthetic eye, and knew by the grace of Heaven what 
 the shapes and sizes and colors of almost every bit of 
 man, woman, or child should be (and so seldom are), 
 was quite bewildered to tind that a real, bare, live 
 human foot could be such a charming object to look 
 at, and felt that such a base or pedestal lent quite an 
 antique and Olympian dignity to a figure that seemed 
 just then rather grotesque in its mixed attire of mil- 
 itary overcoat and female petticoat, and nothing 
 else! 
 
 Poor Trilby ! 
 
 The shape of those lovely slender feet (that were 
 neither large nor small), fac-similed in dust}', pale plas- 
 ter of Paris, survives on the shelves and walls of 
 many a studio throughout the world, and many a 
 
19 
 
 sculptor yet unborn has yet to marvel at their strange 
 perfection, in studious despair. 
 
 For when Dame Nature takes it into her head to 
 do her very best, and bestow her minutest attention 
 on a mere detail, as happens now and then — once in a 
 blue moon, perhaps — she makes it uphill work for 
 poor human art to keep pace with her. 
 
 It is a wondrous thing, the human foot — like the 
 human hand; even more so, perhaps; but, unlike the 
 hand, with which we are so familiar, it is seldom a 
 thing of beauty in civilized adults who go about in 
 leather boots or shoes. 
 
 So that it is hidden away in disgrace, a thing to be 
 thrust out of sight and forgotten. It can sometimes 
 be very ugly, indeed — the ugliest thing there is, even 
 in the fairest and highest and most gifted of her sex; 
 and then it is of an ugliness to chill and kill romance, 
 and scatter young love's dream, and almost break the 
 heart. 
 
 And all for the sake of a high heel and a ridiculous- 
 ly pointed toe — mean things, at the "best ! 
 
 Conversely, when Mother Nature has taken extra 
 pains in the building of it, and proper care or happy 
 chance has kept it free of lamentable deformations, 
 indurations, and discolorations — all those grewsome 
 boot - begotten abominations which have made it so 
 generally unpopular — the sudden sight of it, uncov- 
 ered, comes as a very rare and singularly pleasing sur- 
 prise to the eye that has learned how to see ! 
 
 Nothing else that Mother Nature has to show, not 
 even the human face divine, has more subtle power to 
 suggest high physical distinction, happy evolution, and 
 
20 
 
 supreme development ; the lordship of man over beast, 
 the lordship of man over man, the lordship of woman 
 over all ! 
 
 En voild, de V eloqtience — dprojws de hottes ! 
 
 Trilby had respected Mother Nature's special gift to 
 herself — had never woi'ii a leather boot or shoe, had 
 always taken as much care of her feet as many a fine 
 lad}'' takes of her hands. It was her one coquetry, 
 the only real vanity she had. 
 
 Gecko, his fiddle in one hand and his bow in the 
 other, stared at her in open-mouthed admiration and 
 delight, as she ate her sandwich of soldier's bread and 
 fromage a la creme quite unconcerned. 
 
 When she had finished she licked the tips of her 
 fingers clean of cheese, and produced a small tobacco- 
 pouch from another military pocket, and made her- 
 self a cigarette, and lit it and smoked it, inhaling the 
 smoke in large whiffs, filling her lungs with it, and 
 sending it back through her nostrils, with a look of 
 great beatitude. 
 
 Svengali played Schubert's " Kosemonde," and flash- 
 ed a pair of languishing black eyes at her with intent 
 to kill. 
 
 But she didn't even look his way. She looked at Lit- 
 tle Billee, at big Taffy, at the Laird, at the casts and 
 studies, at the sky, the chimney-pots over the way, the 
 towers of Notre Dame, just visible from where she sat. 
 
 Only when he finished she exclaimed: "Maie, aie! 
 e'est rudement bien tape, c'te musique-la ! Seulement, 
 c'est pas gai, vous savez ! Comment q'ga s'appelle V 
 
 "It is called the 'Eosemonde' of Schubert, mate- 
 moisellej" replied Svengali. (I will translate.) 
 
"nrnojl ji 
 
23 
 
 "And what's that — Rosemonde?" said she. 
 
 " Rosemonde was a princess of Cyprus, inatemoiselle, 
 and Cyprus is an island/' 
 
 " Ah, and Schubert, then — where's that ?" 
 
 " Schubert is not an island, raatemoiselle. Schubert 
 was a compatriot of mine, and made music, and played 
 the piano, just like me." 
 
 " Ah, Schubert was a monsieur, then. Don't know 
 him ; never heard his name." 
 
 " That is a pity, matemoiselle. He had some talent. 
 You like this better, perhaps," and he strummed, 
 
 "Messieurs les etudiants, 
 S'en vont h la chaumiere 
 Pour y danser le cancan," 
 
 striking wrong notes, and banging out a bass in a dif- 
 ferent key — a hideously grotesque performance. 
 
 " Yes, I like that better. It's gayer, you know. Is 
 that also composed by a compatriot of yours ?" asked 
 the lady. 
 
 " Heaven forbid, raatemoiselle." 
 
 And the laugh was against Svengali. 
 
 But the real fun of it all (if there was any) lay in 
 the fact that she was perfectly sincere. 
 
 " Are you fond of music ?" asked Little Billee. 
 
 "Oh, ain't I, just!" she replied. "My father sang 
 like a bird. He was a gentleman and a scholar, my 
 father was. His name was Patrick Michael O'Ferrall, 
 fellow of Trinity, Cambridge. He used to sing ' Ben 
 Bolt.' Do you know ' Ben Bolt ' ?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I know it well," said Little Billee. "It's 
 a very pretty song." 
 
23 
 
 " I can sing it," said Miss O'Ferrall. " Shall I ?" 
 " Oh, certainly, if you will be so kind." 
 Miss O'Ferrall threw away the end of her cigarette, 
 put her hands on her knees as she sat cross-legged on 
 the model - throne, and sticking her elbows well out, 
 she looked up to the ceiling with a tender, sentimental 
 smile, and sang the touching song, 
 
 "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? 
 Sweet Alice, witli hair so brown ?" etc., etc. 
 
 As some things are too sad and too deep for tears, 
 so some things are too grotesque and too funny for 
 laughter. Of such a kind was Miss O'Ferrall's per- 
 formance of " Ben Bolt." 
 
 From that capacious mouth and through that high- 
 bridged bony nose, there rolled a volume of breathy 
 sound, not loud, but so immense that it seemed to 
 come from all round, to be reverberated from every 
 surface in the studio. She followed more or less the 
 shape of the tune, going up when it rose and down 
 when it fell, but with such immense intervals between 
 the notes as were never dreamed of in any mortal 
 melody. It was as though she could never once have 
 deviated into tune, never once have hit upon a true 
 note, even by a fluke — in fact, as though she Avere 
 absolutely tone-deaf and without ear, although she 
 stuck to the time correctly enough. 
 
 She finished her song amid an embarrassing silence. 
 The audience didn't quite know whether it were meant 
 for fun or seriously. One wondered if she were not 
 paying out Svengali for his impertinent performance 
 
34 
 
 of " Messieurs les etudiants." If so, it was a capital 
 piece of impromptu tit-for-tat admirably acted, and a 
 very ugly gleam yellowed the tawny black of Sven- 
 gali's big eyes. He was so fond of making fun of 
 others that he particularly resented being made fun of 
 himself — couldn't endure that any one should ever 
 have the laugh of him. 
 
 At length Little Billee said : " Thank you so much. 
 It is a capital song." 
 
 " Yes," said Miss O'Ferrall. "It's the only song I 
 know, unfortunately. My father used to sing it, just 
 like that, when he felt jolly after hot rum and water. 
 It used to make people cry ; he used to cry over it 
 himself, /never do. Some people think I can't sing 
 a bit. All I can say is that I've often had to sing 
 it six or seven times running in lots of studios. I 
 vary it, you know — not the words, but the tune. You 
 must remember that I've only taken to it lately. 
 Do you know Litolff ? Well, he's a great composer, 
 and he came to Durien's the other day, and I sang 
 ' Ben Bolt,' and what do you think he said i Why, 
 he said Madame Alboni couldn't go nearly so high 
 or so low as I did, and that her voice wasn't half so 
 strong. He gav^e me his word of honor. He said I 
 breathed as natural and straight as a baby, and all I 
 want is to get my voice a little more under control. 
 That's what he said." 
 
 "Qu'est-ce qu'elle dit?" asked Svengali. And she 
 said it all over again to him in French — quite French 
 French — of the most colloquial kind. Her accent was 
 not that of the Comedie Franpaise, nor yet that of the 
 Faubourg St. Germain, nor yet that of the pavement. 
 
25 
 
 It was quaint and expressive — " funny without being 
 vulgar," 
 
 "Barpleu! he was right, Litolff," said Svengali. 
 " I assure you, matemoiselle, that I have never heard 
 a voice that can equal yours ; you have a talent quite 
 exceptional." 
 
 She blushed with pleasure, and the others thought 
 him a " beastly cad " for poking fun at the poor girl 
 in such a way. And they thought MoBsieur Litolff 
 another. 
 
 She then got up and shook the crumbs off her coat, 
 and slipped her feet into Durien's slippers, saying, in 
 English : " Well, Fve got to go back. Life ain't all 
 beer and skittles, and more's the pity ; but what's the 
 odds, so long as youVe happy ?" 
 
 On her way out she stopped before Taffy's picture 
 — a chiffonnier with his lantern bending over a dust 
 heap. For Taffy Avas, or thought himself, a passion- 
 ate realist in those daj's. He has chaDged, and now 
 paints nothing but King Arthurs and Guineveres and 
 Lancelots and Elaines and floating Ladies of Shalott. 
 
 " That chiffonnier's basket isn't hitched high enough," 
 she remarked. " How could he tap his pick against 
 the rim and make the rag fall into it if it's hitched 
 only half-way up his back? And he's got the wrong 
 sabots, and the wrong lantern ; it's all wrong." 
 
 " Dear me !" said Taffy, turning very red ; " you 
 seem to know a lot about it. It's a pity you don't 
 paint, yourself." 
 
 " Ah ! now you're cross !" said Miss O'FerralL " Oh, 
 maie, aie !" 
 
 She went to the door and paused, looking round 
 
26 
 
 benignly. " What nice teeth you've all three got 
 That's because you're Englishmen, I suppose, and 
 clean them twice a day. I do too. Trilby O'Ferrall, 
 that's ray name, 48 Rue des Pousse-Cailloux ! — pose 
 pour I'ensemble, quand 9a I'amuse ! va-t-en ville, et fait 
 tout ce qui concerne son etat ! Don't forget. Thanks 
 all, and good-bye." 
 
 " En v'la une orichinale," said Svengali. 
 
 " I think she's lovely," said Little Billee, the young 
 and tender. " Oh, heavens, what angel's feet ! It 
 makes me sick to think she sits for the figure. I'm 
 sure she's quite a lady." 
 
 And in five minutes or so, with the point of an old 
 compass, he scratched in white on the dark red wall 
 a three-quarter profile outline of Trilby's left foot, 
 which was perhaps the more perfect poem of the 
 two. 
 
 Slight as it was, this little piece of impromptu etch- 
 ing, in its sense of beauty, in its quick seizing of a pe- 
 culiar individuality, its subtle rendering of a strongly 
 received impression, was already the work of a master. 
 It was Trilby's foot, and nobody else's, nor could have 
 been, and nobody else but Little Billee could have 
 drawn it in just that inspired way. 
 
 " Qu'est-ce que c'est, ' Ben Bolt ' ?" inquired Gecko. 
 
 Upon which Little Billee was made by Taffy to 
 sit down to the piano and sing it. He sang it very 
 nicely with his pleasant little throaty English bary- 
 tone. 
 
 It was solely in order that Little Billee should have 
 opportunities of practising this graceful accomplish- 
 ment of his, for his own and his friends' delectation, 
 
TRILBY -S LEFT FOOT 
 
28 
 
 that the piano had been sent over from London, at 
 great cost to Taffy and the Laird. It had belonged to 
 Taffy's mother, who was dead. 
 
 Before he had finished the second verse, Svengah 
 exclaimed: "Mais c'est tout-a-fait chentil! AUons, 
 Gecko, chouez-nous 9a !" 
 
 And he put his big hands on the piano, over Little 
 Billee's, pushed him off the music-stool with his great 
 gaunt body, and, sitting on it himself, he played a 
 masterly prelude. It was impressive to hear the com 
 plicated richness and volume of the sounds he evoked 
 after Little Billee's gentle "tink-a-tink." 
 
 And Gecko, cuddling lovingly his violin and closing 
 his upturned eyes, played that simple melody as it had 
 probably never been played before— such passion, such 
 pathos, such a tone ! — and they turned it and twisted 
 it, and went from one key to another, playing into 
 each other's hands, Svengali taking the lead ; and 
 fugued and canoned and counterpointed and battle- 
 doored and shuttlecocked it, high and low, soft and 
 loud, in minor, in pizzicato, and in sordino — adagio, 
 andante, allegretto, scherzo — and exhausted all its 
 possibilities of beauty ; till their susceptible audience 
 of three was all but crazed with delight and wonder; 
 and the masterful Ben Bolt, and his over-tender Alice, 
 and his too submissive friend, and his old school- 
 master so kind and so true, and his long-dead school- 
 mates, and the rustic porch and the mill, and the slab 
 of granite so gray, 
 
 " And the dear little nook 
 By the clear running brook," 
 
29 
 
 were all magnified into a strange, almost holy poetic 
 dignity and splendor quite undreamed of by whoever 
 wrote the words and music of that unsophisticated 
 little song, which has touched so many simple British 
 hearts that don't know any better — and among them, 
 once, that of the present scribe— long, long ago! 
 
 "Sacrepleu! il choue pien, le Checko, hein?''said 
 Svengali, when they had brought this wonderful 
 double improvisation to a climax and a close. '' C'est 
 mon elefe! che le fais chanter sur son fiolon, c'est 
 comme si c'etait moi qui chantais ! ach ! si ch'afais 
 pour teux sous de voix, che serais le bremier chanteur 
 du monte! I cannot sing!" he continued. (I will 
 translate him into English, without attempting to 
 translate his accent, which is a mere matter of judi- 
 ciously transposing p's and b's, and t's and d's, and f s 
 and v's, and g's and k's, and turning the soft French j 
 into sch, and a pretty language into an ugly one.) 
 
 " I cannot sing myself, I cannot play the violin, but 
 I can teach — hein. Gecko ? And I have a pupil — hein, 
 Gecko? — la betite Ilonorine;" and here he leered all 
 round with a leer that was not engaging. "The 
 world shall hear of la betite Honorine some day— 
 hein, Gecko ? Listen all — this is how I teach la betite 
 Ilonorine ! Gecko, play me a little accompaniment in 
 pizzicato." 
 
 And he pulled out of his pocket a kind of little flex- 
 ible flageolet (of his own invention, it seems), which 
 he screwed together and put to his lips, and on this 
 humble instrument he played " Ben Bolt," while Gecko 
 accompanied him, using his fiddle as a guitar, his ador- 
 ing eyes fixed in reverence on his master. 
 
30 
 
 And it would be impossible to render in any words 
 the deftness, the distinction, the grace, power, pathos, 
 and passion with which this truly phenomenal artist 
 executed the poor old twopenny tune on his elastic 
 penny whistle — for it Avas little more — such thrilling, 
 vibrating, piercing tenderness, now loud and full, a 
 shrill scream of anguish, now soft as a whisper, a mere 
 melodic breath, more human almost than the human 
 voice itself, a perfection unattainable even by Gecko, 
 a master, on an instrument which is the acknowledged 
 king of all ! 
 
 So that the tear which had been so close to the 
 brink of Little Billee's eye while Gecko was playing 
 now" rose and trembled under his eyelid and spdled 
 itself down his nose; and he had to dissemble and 
 surreptitiously mop it up with his little finger as he 
 leaned his chin on his hand, and cough a little husky, 
 unnatural cough— ^ow^^ se donner une contenance ! 
 
 He had never heard such music as this, never 
 dreamed such music was possible. He was conscious, 
 while it lasted, that he saw deeper into the beauty, 
 the sadness of things, the very heart of them, and 
 their pathetic evanescence, as with a new, inner eye — 
 even into eternity itself, beyond the veil — a vague 
 cosmic vision that faded when the music was over, 
 but left an unfading reminiscence of its having been, 
 and a passionate desire to express the like some day 
 through the plastic medium of his own beautiful 
 art. 
 
 When Svengali ended, he leered again on his dumb- 
 struck audience, and said : " That is how I teach la 
 beiite Honorine to sing; that is how I teach Gecko 
 
33 
 
 to play ; that is how I teach 'il hel canto \f It was 
 lost, the bel canto— but I found it, in a dream — ^I, and 
 nobody else — I — S Bengali — I — I — // But that is 
 enough of music ; let us play at something else — let us 
 play at this !" he cried, jumping up and seizing a foil 
 and bending it against the wall. . . . '* Come along. 
 Little Pillee, and I will show you something more you 
 don't know. . . ." 
 
 So Little Billee took off coat and waistcoat, donned 
 mask and glove and fencing-shoes, and they had an 
 "assault of arms," as it is nobly called in French, and 
 in which poor Little Billee came off very badly. The 
 German Pole fenced wildly, but well. 
 
 Then it was the Laird's turn, and he came off badly 
 too ; so then Taffy took up the foil, and redeemed the 
 honor of Great Britain, as became a British hussar 
 and a Man of Blood. For Taffy, by long and assidu- 
 ous practice in the best school in Paris (and also by 
 virtue of his native aptitudes), was a match for any 
 maitre d'armes in the whole French army, and Sven- 
 gali got " what for." 
 
 And when it was time to give up play and settle 
 down to work, others dropped in — French, English, 
 Swiss, German, American, Greek ; curtains were drawn 
 and shutters opened ; the studio was flooded with 
 light — and the afternoon was healthily spent in ath- 
 letic and gymnastic exercises till dinner-time. 
 
 But Little Billee, who had had enough of fencing 
 and gymnastics for the day, amused himself by filling 
 up with black and white and red chalk -strokes the 
 outline of Trilby's foot on the wall, lest he should for- 
 get his fresh vision of it, which was still to him as the 
 
33 
 
 thing itself — an absolute reality, born of a mere glance, 
 a mere chance. 
 
 Durien came in and looked over his shoulder, and 
 exclaimed : " Tiens ! le pied de Trilby ! vous avez fait 
 9a d'apres nature ?" 
 
 "Nong!" 
 
 "De memoire, alors?" 
 
 " Wee !" 
 
 " Je vous en fais mon compliment! Vous avez eu 
 la main heureuse. Je voudrais bien avoir fait 9a, moi ! 
 C'est un petit chef-d'oeuvre que vous avez fait la — tout 
 bonnement, mon cher ! Mais vous elaborez trop. De 
 grace, n'y touch ez plus !" 
 
 And Little Billee was pleased, and touched it no 
 more ; for Durien was a great sculptor, and sincerity 
 itself. 
 
 And then — well, I happen to forget what sort of 
 day this particular day turned into at about six of 
 the clock. 
 
 If it was decently fine, the most of them went oflP 
 to dine at the Kestaurant de la Couronne, kept by 
 the Pere Trin, in the Rue de Monsieur, who gave 
 you of his best to eat and drink for twenty sols 
 Parisis, or one franc in the coin of the empire. Good 
 distending soups, omelets that were only too savory, 
 lentils, red and white beans, meat so dressed and 
 sauced and seasoned that you didn't know whether it 
 were beef or mutton — flesh, fowl, or good red herring — 
 or even bad, for that matter — nor very greatly care. 
 
 And just the same lettuce, .radishes, and cheese of 
 Gruyere or Brie as you got at the Trois Freres Pro- 
 3 
 
34 
 
 venyaux (but not the same butter!). And to wash 
 it all down, generous wine in wooden " brocs " — that 
 stained a lovely aesthetic blue everything it was 
 spilled over. 
 
 And you hobnobbed with models, male and female, 
 students of law and medicine, painters and sculptors, 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF AUTS 
 
 workmen and blanchis- 
 seuses and grisettes, 
 and found them very 
 good company, and 
 most improving to 
 your French, if your 
 French was of the usual British kind, and even to 
 some of your manners, if these were very British in- 
 deed. And the evening was innocently wound up 
 with billiards, cards, or dominos at the Cafe du Lux- 
 embourg opposite ; or at the Theatre du Luxembourg, 
 in the Rue de Madame, to see funny farces with 
 screamingly droll Englishmen in them ; or, still bet- 
 ter, at the Jardin Bullicr (la Closerie des Lilas), to 
 
35 
 
 see the students dance the cancan, or try and dance 
 it yourself, which is not so easy as it seems ; or, best 
 of all, at the Theatre de I'Odeou, to see some piece of 
 classical Tepertoire. 
 
 Or, if it were not only fine, but a Saturday after- 
 noon into the bargain, the Laird would put on a neck- 
 tie and a Iqw other necessary things, and the three 
 friends would walk arm in arm to Taffy's hotel in the 
 Eue de Seine, and wait outside till he had made him- 
 self as presentable as the Laird, which did not take 
 very long. And then (Little Billee was always pre- 
 sentable) they would, arm in arm, the huge Taffy in 
 the middle, descend the Rue de Seine and cross a 
 bridge to the Cite, and have a look in at the Morgue. 
 Then back again to the quays on the rive gauche by 
 the Pont Neuf, to wend their way westward ; now on 
 one side to look at the print and picture shops and 
 the magasins of bric-a-brac, and haply sometimes buy 
 thereof, now on the other to finger and cheapen the 
 second-hand books for sale on the parapet, and even 
 pick up one or two utterly unwanted bargains, never 
 to be read or opened again. 
 
 When they reached the Pont des Arts they would 
 cross it, stopping in the middle to look up the river 
 towards the old Cite and Notre Dame, eastward, and 
 dream unutterable things, and try to utter them. 
 Then, turning westward, they would gaze at the glow- 
 ing sky and all it glowed upon — the corner of the Tui- 
 leries and the Louvre, the many bridges, the Chamber 
 of Deputies, the golden river narrowing its perspec- 
 tive and broadening its bed as it went flowing and 
 winding on its way between Passy and Grenelle to 
 
36 
 
 St. Cloud, to Eouen, to the Havre, to England per- 
 haps — where they didn't want to be just then; and 
 they would try and express themselves to the effect 
 that life was uncommonly well worth living in that 
 particular city at that particular time of the day and 
 year and century, at that particular epoch of their 
 own mortal and uncertain lives. 
 
 Then, still arm in arm and chatting gayly, across 
 the court- yard of the Louvre, through gilded gates 
 well guarded by reckless imperial Zouaves, up the ar- 
 caded Kue de Kivoli as far as the Eue Castiglione, 
 where they would stare with greedy eyes at the win- 
 dow of the great corner pastry-cook, and marvel at 
 the beautiful assortment of bonbons, pralines, dragees, 
 marrons glaces — saccharine, crystalline substances of 
 all kinds and colors, as charming to look at as an il- 
 lumination ; precious stones, delicately frosted sweets, 
 pearls and diamonds so arranged as to melt in the 
 mouth ; especially, at this particular time of the 
 year, the monstrous Easter -eggs of enchanting hue, 
 enshrined like costly jewels in caskets of satin and 
 gold ; and the Laird, who was well read in his English 
 classics and liked to show it, would opine that " they 
 managed these things better in France." 
 
 Then across the street by a great gate into the AUee 
 des Feuillants, and up to the Place de la Concorde — 
 to gaze, but quite w^ithout base envy, at the smart peo- 
 ple coming back from the Bois de Boulogne. For 
 even in Paris " carriage people " have a way of look- 
 ing bored, of taking their pleasure sadly, of having 
 nothing to say to each other, as though the vibration 
 of so many wheels all rolling home the same way 
 
37 
 
 every afternoon had hypnotized them into silence, 
 idiocy, and melancholia. 
 
 And our three musketeers of the brush would spec- 
 ulate on the vanity of wealth and rank and fashion; 
 on the satiety that follows in the wake of self-indul- 
 gence and overtakes it ; on the weariness of the pleas- 
 ures that become a toil — as if they knew all about it, 
 had found it all out for themselves, and nobody else 
 had ever found it out before! 
 
 Then they found out something else — namely, that 
 the sting of healthy appetite was becoming intoler- 
 able; so they would betake themselves to an English 
 eating-house in the Eue de la Madeleine (on the left- 
 hand side near the top), where the}' Avould renovate 
 their strength and their patriotism on British beef and 
 beer, and household bread, and bracing, biting, sting- 
 ing yellow mustard, and horseradish, and noble apple- 
 pie, and Cheshire cheese ; and get through as much 
 of these in an hour or so as thev could for talkino- 
 talking, talking ; such happy talk ! as full of sanguine 
 hope and enthusiasm, of cocksure commendation or 
 condemnation of all painters, dead or alive, of modest 
 but firm belief in themselves and each other, as a 
 Paris Easter-egg is full of sweets and pleasantness (for 
 the young). 
 
 And then a stroll on the crowded, well -lighted 
 boulevards, and a bock at the cafe there, at a lit- 
 tle three-legged marble table right out on the gen- 
 ial asphalt pavement, still talking nineteen to the 
 dozen. 
 
 Then home by dark, old, silent streets and some 
 deserted bridge to their beloved Latin quarter, the 
 
38 
 
 Morgue gleaming cold and still and fatal in the pale 
 lamplight, and Notre Dame pricking up its watchful 
 twin towers, which have looked down for so many 
 centuries on so many happy, sanguine, expansive 
 youths walking arm in arm by twos and threes, and 
 forever talking, talking, talking. , . . 
 
 The Laird and Little Billee would see Taffy safe 
 to the door of his hotel garni in the Eue de Seine, 
 where they would find much to say to each other be- 
 fore they said good -night — so much that Taffy and 
 Little Billee w^ould see the Laird safe to his door, in 
 the Place St. Anatole des Arts. And then a discus- 
 sion would arise between TaflPy and the Laird on the 
 immortality of the soul, let us say, or the exact mean- 
 ing of the word " gentleman," or the relative merits 
 of Dickens and Thackeray, or some such recondite and 
 quite unhackneyed theme, and Taffy and the Laird 
 would escort Little Billee to his door, in the Place de 
 rOdeon, and he would re-escort them both back again, 
 and so on till any hour you please. 
 
 Or again, if it rained, and Paris through the studio 
 window loomed lead-colored, with its shiny slate roofs 
 under skies that were ashen and sober, and the wild 
 west wind made woful music among the chimney-pots, 
 and little gray waves ran up the river the wrong way, 
 and the Morgue looked chill and dark and wet, and 
 almost uninviting (even to three healthy-minded young 
 Britons), they would resolve to dine and spend a hap- 
 py evening at home. 
 
 Little Billee, taking with him three francs (or even 
 four), would dive into back streets and buy a 3'ard or 
 
'three musketeers of the brush 
 
40 
 
 SO of crusty new bread, well burned on the flat side, 
 a fillet of beef, a litre of wine, potatoes and onions, 
 butter, a little cylindrical cheese called " bondon de 
 Neufchatel," tender curly lettuce, with chervil, parsley, 
 spring onions, and other fine herbs, and a pod of gar- 
 lic, which would be rubbed on a crust of bread to fiavor 
 things with. 
 
 Taffy would lay the cloth Englishwise, and also 
 make the salad, for which, like everybody else I ever 
 met, he had a special receipt of his own (putting in 
 the oil first and the vinegar after) ; and indeed his 
 salads were quite as good as everybody else's. 
 
 The Laird, bending over the stove, would cook the 
 onions and beef into a savory Scotch mess so cunning- 
 ly that you could not taste the beef for the onions — 
 nor always the onions for the garlic ! 
 
 And they would dine far better than at le Pere 
 Trin's, far better than at the English Restaurant in 
 the Rue de la Madeleine — better than anywhere else 
 on earth ! 
 
 And after dinner, what coffee, roasted and ground 
 on the spot, what pipes and cigarettes of " caporal," 
 by the light of the three shaded lamps, while the rain 
 beat against the big north window, and the wind went 
 howling round the quaint old mediaeval tower at the 
 corner of the Rue Vieille des Mauvais Ladres (the okl 
 street of the bad lepers), and the damp logs hissed and 
 crackled in the stove ! 
 
 What jolly talk into the small hours ! Thackeray 
 and Dickens again, and Tennyson and Byron (who 
 was " not dead yet " in those days) ; and Titian and 
 Yelasquez, and young Millais and Holman Hunt (just 
 
41 
 
 out); and Monsieur Ingres and Monsieur Delacroix, 
 and Balzac and Stendahl and George Sand ; and the 
 good Dumas ! and Edgar Allan Poe ; and the glory 
 that was Greece and the grandeur that was Kome. . . . 
 
 Good, honest, innocent, artless prattle — not of the 
 wisest, perhaps, nor redolent of the very highest cult- 
 ure (which, by-the-way, can mar as well as make), nor 
 leading to any very practical result ; but quite pathet- 
 ically sweet from the sincerity and fervor of its con- 
 victions, a profound belief in their importance, and a 
 proud trust in their life-long immutability. 
 
 Oh, happy days and happy nights, sacred to art and 
 friendship ! oh, happy times of careless impecuniosit}'-, 
 and youth and hope and health and strength and free- 
 dom — with all Paris for a playground, and its dear old 
 unregenerate Latin quarter for a workshop and a home ! 
 
 And, up to then, no kill-joy complications of love! 
 
 No, decidedly no ! Little Billee had never known 
 such happiness as this — never even dreamed of its pos- 
 sibility. 
 
 A day or two after this, our opening day, but in the 
 afternoon, when the fencing and boxing had begun 
 and the trapeze was in full swing. Trilby's " Milk be- 
 low!" was sounded at the door, and she appeared — 
 clothed this time in her right mind, as it seemed : a 
 tall, straight, flat-backed, square-shouldered, deep-chest- 
 ed, full-bosomed young grisette, in a snowy frilled cap, 
 a neat black gown and white apron, pretty faded, well- 
 darned, brown stockings, and well-worn, soft, gray, 
 square-toed slippers of list, without heels and origi- 
 nally shapeless ; but which her feet, uncompromising 
 
43 
 
 and inexorable as boot-trees, had ennobled into ever- 
 lasting classic shapeliness, and stamped with an un- 
 forgettable individuality, as does a beautiful hand its 
 well-worn glove — a fact Little Billee was not slow to 
 perceive, with a curious conscious thrill that was only 
 half aesthetic. 
 
 Then he looked into her freckled face, and met the 
 kind and tender mirthfulness of her gaze and the 
 plucky frankness of her fine wide smile with a thrill 
 that was not aesthetic at all (nor the reverse), but all 
 of the heart. And in one of his quick flashes of intui- 
 tive insight he divined far down beneath the shinino^ 
 surface of those eyes (which seemed for a moment to 
 reflect only a little image of himself against the sky 
 beyond the big north window) a well of sweetness; 
 and floating somewhere in the midst of it the very 
 heart of compassion, generosity, and warm sisterly 
 love ; and under that — alas ! at the bottom of all — a 
 thin slimy layer of sorrow and shame. And just as 
 long as it takes for a tear to rise and gather and choke 
 itself back again, this sudden revelation shook his ner- 
 vous little frame with a pang of pity, and the knightly 
 wish to help. But he had no time to indulge in such 
 soft emotions. Trilby was met on her entrance by 
 friendly greetings on all sides. 
 
 " Tiens ! c'est la grande Trilby !" exclaimed Jules 
 Guinot through his fencing-mask. "Comment! t'es 
 deja debout apres heir soir? Avons-nous assez rigole 
 chez Mathieu, hein ? Crenom d'un nom, quelle noce ! 
 Via une cremaillere qui pent se vanter d'etre dian- 
 trement bien pendue, j'espere ! Et la petite sante, c' 
 matin ?" 
 
43 
 
 " He, he ! raon vieux," answered Trilby. " ^a bou- 
 lotte, apparemment ! Et toi ? et Victorine ? Comment 
 qu'a s' porte a c't'heure ? Elle avait un fier coup d'chas- 
 selas! e'est-y jobard, hein? de s' fich 'paf comme 9a 
 d'vant r monde ! Tiens, v'la, Gontran ! 9a marche-t-y, 
 Gontran, Zouzou d' mon 
 coeur ?" 
 
 " Comme snr des roulettes, 
 ma biche!" said Gontran, 
 alias V Zouzou — a corporal 
 in the Zouaves. " Mais tu 
 t'es done mise chiffonniere, 
 a present? T'as fait ban- 
 queroute f 
 
 (For Trilby had a chiffon- 
 nier's basket strapped on her 
 back, and carried a pick and 
 lantern.) 
 
 " Mais-z-oui, mon bon !" 
 she said. " Dame ! pas d' 
 veine hier soir! t'as bienvu! 
 Dans la deche jusqu'aux om- 
 oplates, mon pauv' caporal- 
 sous-off! nom d'un canon — 
 faut bien vivre, s' pas ?" 
 
 Little Billee's heart sluices 
 bad closed during this inter- 
 change of courtesies. He 
 felt it to be of a very slangy 
 
 kind, because he couldn't understand a word of it, 
 and he hated slang. All he could make out was 
 the free use of the " tu " and the " toi," and he knew 
 
 TAFFY MAKES THE SALAD 
 
44 
 
 enough French to know that this implied a great 
 famiharity, which he misunderstood. 
 
 So that Jules Guinot's polite inquiries whether Trilby 
 were none the worse after Mathieu's house-warming 
 (which was so jolly), Trilby's kind solicitude about 
 the health of Yictorine, who had very foolishl}^ taken 
 a drop too much on that occasion, Trilby's mock re- 
 grets that her own bad luck at cards had made it 
 necessary that she should retrieve her fallen fortunes 
 by rag-picking — all these innocent, playful little amen- 
 ities (which I have tried to write down just as they 
 were spoken) were couched in a language that was as 
 Greek to him — and he felt out of it, jealous and in- 
 dignant. 
 
 " Good-afternoon to you, Mr. Taffy," said Trilby, in 
 English. "I've brought 3"ou these objects of art and 
 virtu to make the peace with you. They're the real 
 thing, you know, I borrowed 'em from le pere Mar- 
 tin, chiffonnier en gros et en detail, grand officier de 
 la Legion d'Honneur, membre de I'lnstitut, et cetera, 
 treize bis, Rue du Puits d' Amour, rez-de-chaussee, au 
 fond de la cour a gauche, vis-a-vis le mont-de-piete ! 
 He's one of my intimate friends, and — " 
 
 " You don't mean to say you're the intimate friend 
 of a Tog-jpicker V exclaimed the good Taffy. 
 
 " Oh yes ! Pourquoi pas ? I never brag ; besides, 
 there ain't any beastly pride about le pere Martin," 
 said Trilby, with a wink. " You'd soon find that out 
 if you were an intimate friend of his. This is how it's 
 put on. Do you see ? If yow'U put it on, I'll fasten it 
 for you, and show you how to hold the lantern and 
 handle the pick. You may come to it yourself some 
 
45 
 
 day, you know. II ne faut jurer de rien ! Pere Mar- 
 tin will pose for you in person, if you like. He's gen- 
 erally disengaged in the afternoon. He's poor but 
 honest, you know, and very nice and clean ; quite the 
 gentleman. He likes artists, especially English — they 
 pay. His wife sells bric-a-brac and old masters: 
 Kerabrandts from two francs fifty upwards. They've 
 got a little grandson — a love of a child. I'm his god- 
 mother. You know French, I suppose?" 
 
 " Oh yes," said Taffy, much abashed. " I'm very 
 much obliged to you — very much indeed — a — I — a — " 
 
 " y a pas d' quoi !" said Trilby, divesting herself of 
 her basket and putting it, with the pick and lantern, 
 in a corner. " Et main ten ant, le temps d'absorber 
 une fine de tin sec [a cigarette] et je m' la brise [I'm 
 off]. On m'attend a I'Ambassade d'Autriche. Et 
 puis zut! Allez toujours, mes enfants. En avant 
 la boxe !" 
 
 She sat herself down cross-legged on the model- 
 throne, and made herself a cigarette, and watched the 
 fencing and boxing. Little Billee brought her a chair, 
 which she refused ; so he sat down on it himself by her 
 side, and talked to her, just as he would have talked 
 to any young lady at home — about the weather, about 
 Yerdi's new opera (which she had never heard), the 
 impressiveness of Notre Dame, and Yictor Hugo's 
 beautiful romance (which she had never read), the 
 mysterious charm of Leonardo da Yinci's Lisa Gio- 
 conda's smile (which she had never seen) — by all of 
 which she was no doubt rather tickled and a little em- 
 barrassed, perhaps also a little touched. 
 
 Taffy brought her a cup of coffee, and conversed 
 
46 
 
 with her in polite formal French, very well and care- 
 fully pronounced ; and the Laird tried to do likewise. 
 His French was of that honest English kind that 
 breaks up the stiffness of even an English party ; and 
 his jolly manners were such as to put an end to all 
 shyness and constraint, and make self- consciousness 
 impossible. 
 
 Others dropped in from neighboring studios — the 
 usual cosmopolite crew. It was a perpetual come 
 and go in this particular studio between four and six 
 in the afternoon. 
 
 There were ladies, too, en cheveux, in caps and bon- 
 nets, some of whom knew Trilby, and thee'd and 
 tliou'd with familiar and friendly affection, while others 
 mademoiselle'd her with distant politeness, and were 
 mademoiselle'd and madame'd back again. " Absolu- 
 ment comme a I'Ambassade d'Autriche," as Trilby ob- 
 served to the Laird, with a British wink that was by 
 no means ambassadorial. 
 
 Then Svengali came and made some of his grandest 
 music, which was as completely thrown away on 
 Trilby as fireworks on a blind beggar, for all she 
 held her tongue so piously. 
 
 Fencing and boxing and trapezing seemed to be 
 more in her line; and indeed, to a tone-deaf person, 
 Taffy lunging his full spread with a foil, in all the 
 splendor of his long, lithe, youthful strength, was a far 
 gainlier sight than Svengali at the key-board flashing 
 his languid bold eyes with a sickly smile from one 
 listener to another, as if to say : " N'est-ce pas que che 
 suis peau ! N'est-ce pas que ch'ai tu chenie ? N'est-ce 
 pas que che suis suplime, enfin V 
 
48 
 
 Then enter Durien the sculptor, who had been pre- 
 sented with a baignoire at the Porte St. Martin to see 
 " La Dame aux Camelias," and he invited Trilby and 
 another lady to dine with him "au cabaret" and 
 share his box. 
 
 So Trilby didn't go to the Austrian embassy after 
 all, as the Laird observed to Little Billee, with such a 
 good imitation of her wink that Little Billee was bound 
 to laugh. 
 
 But Little Billee was not inclined for fun ; a dul- 
 ness, a sense of disenchantment, had come over him ; 
 as he expressed it to himself, with pathetic self-pity ; 
 
 "A feeling of sadness and longing 
 That is not akin to pain, 
 And resembles sorrow only 
 
 As the mist resembles the rain." 
 
 And the sadness, if he had known, was that all beau- 
 tiful young women with kind sweet faces and noble 
 figures and goddess-like extremities should not be good 
 and pure as they were beautiful ; and the longing was 
 a longing that Trilby could be turned into a young 
 lady — say the vicar's daughter in a little Devonshire 
 village — his sister's friend and co-teacher at the Sun- 
 day-school ; a simple, pure, and pious maiden of gentle 
 birth. 
 
 For he adored piety in woman, although he was not 
 pious by any means. His inarticulate, intuitive per- 
 ceptions were not of form and color secrets only, but 
 strove to pierce the veil of deeper mysteries in impetu- 
 ous and dogmatic boyish scorn of all received interpre- 
 tations. For he flattered himself that he possessed the 
 
49 
 
 philosophical and scientific mind, and piqued himself 
 on thinking clearl}^ and was intolerant of human in- 
 consistency. 
 
 That small reserve portion of his ever-active brain 
 which should have lain fallow while the rest of it was 
 at work or play, perpetually plagued itself about the 
 mysteries of life and death, and was forever propound- 
 ing unanswerable arguments against the Christian be- 
 lief, through a kind of inverted sympathy with the 
 believer. Fortunately for his friends. Little Billee 
 was both shy and discreet, and very tender of other 
 people's feelings ; so he kept all his immature juvenile 
 agnosticism to himself. 
 
 To atone for such ungainly strong-mindedness in one 
 so young and tender, he was the slave of many little 
 traditional observances which have no very solid foun- 
 dation in either science or philosophy. For instance, 
 he wouldn't walk under a ladder for worlds, nor sit 
 down thirteen to dinner, nor have his hair cut on a 
 Friday, and was quite upset if he happened to see the 
 new moon through glass. And he believed in lucky 
 and unlucky numbers, and dearly loved the sights 
 and scents and sounds of high -mass in some dim old 
 French cathedral, and found them secretly comforting. 
 
 Let us hope that he sometimes laughed at himself, 
 if only in his sleeve ! 
 
 And with all his keenness of insight into life he had 
 a well-brought-up, middle -class young Englishman's 
 belief in the infallible efficacy of gentle birth — for 
 gentle he considered his own and Taffy's and the 
 Laird's, and that of most of the good people he had 
 lived among in England — all people, in short, Avhose 
 
50 
 
 two parents and four grandparents had received a 
 liberal education and belonged to the professional 
 class. And with this belief he combined (or thought 
 he did) a proper democratic scorn for bloated dukes 
 and lords, and even poor inoffensive baronets, and all 
 the landed gentry — everybody who was born an inch 
 higher up than himself. 
 
 It is a fairly good middle-class social creed, if you 
 can only stick to it through life in despite of life's ex- 
 perience. It fosters independence and self-respect, 
 and not a few stodgy practical virtues as well. At 
 all events, it keeps you out of bad company, which is 
 to be found both above and below. 
 
 And all this melancholy preoccupation, on Little 
 Billee's part, from the momentary gleam and dazzle 
 of a pair of over-perfect feet in an over-sesthetic eye, 
 too much enamoured of mere form ! 
 
 Reversing the usual process, he had idealized from 
 the base upward ! 
 
 Many of us, older and wiser than Little Billee, have 
 seen in lovely female shapes the outer garment of 
 a lovely female soul. The instinct which guides us 
 to do this is, perhaps, a right one, more often than 
 not. But more often tlian not, also, lovely female 
 shapes are terrible complicators of the difficulties and 
 dangers of this earthly life, especially for their owner, 
 and more especially if she be a humble daughter of 
 the people, poor and ignorant, of a yielding nature, 
 too quick to love and trust. This is all so true as to 
 be trite — so trite as to be a common platitude! 
 
 A modern teller of tales, most widely (and most 
 justly) popular, tells us of heroes and heroines who, 
 
51 
 
 like Lord Byron's corsair, were linked with one virtue 
 and a thousand crimes. And so dexterously does he 
 weave his story that the young person may read it 
 and learn nothing but good. 
 
 My poor heroine was the converse of these engaging 
 criminals : she had all the virtues but one ; but the 
 virtue she lacked (the very one of all that plays the 
 title-role, and gives its generic name to all the rest of 
 that goodly company) was of such a kind that I have 
 found it impossible so to tell her history as to make it 
 quite fit and proper reading for the ubiquitous young 
 person so dear to us all. 
 
 Most deeply to my regret. For I had fondly hoped 
 it might one day be said of me that whatever ni}'^ other 
 literary shortcomings might be, I at least had never 
 penned a line which a pure-minded young British 
 mother might not read aloud to her little blue -eyed 
 babe as it lies sucking its little bottle in its little 
 bassinet. 
 
 Fate has willed it otherwise. 
 
 Would indeed that I could duly express poor Tril- 
 by's one shortcoming in some not too familiar medi- 
 um — in Latin or Greek, let us say — lest the young 
 person (in this ubiquitousness of hers, for which Heav- 
 en be praised) should happen to pry into these pages 
 when her mother is looking another way. 
 
 Latin and Greek are languages the young person 
 should not be taught to understand — seeing that they 
 are highly improper languages, deservedly dead — in 
 which pagan bards who should have known better 
 have sung the filthy loves of their gods and goddesses. 
 
 But at least am I scholar enough to enter one little 
 
Latin plea on Trilby's 
 behalf — the shortest, 
 best, and most beauti- 
 ful plea I can think of. 
 It was once used in ex- 
 tenuation and condona- 
 tion of the frailties of 
 another poor weak 
 woman, presumably 
 beautiful, and a far 
 worse offender than 
 Trilby, but who, like 
 Trilby, repented of her 
 ways, and was most justly forgiven — 
 
 
 TRILBY S FOllEBKAllS 
 
 ' ' Quia multum amavit !" 
 
 "Whether it be an aggravation of her misdeeds or 
 an extenuating circumstance, no pressure of want, no 
 temptations of greed or vanity, had ever been factors 
 in urging Trilby on her downward career after her 
 first false step in that direction — the result of igno- 
 rance, bad advice (from her mother, of all people in the 
 
53 
 
 world), and base betrayal. She might have lived in 
 guilty splendor had she chosen, but her wants were 
 few. She had no vanity, and her tastes were of the 
 simplest, and she earned enough to gratify them all, 
 and to spare. 
 
 So she followed love for love's sake only, now and 
 then, as she would have followed art if she had been 
 a man — capriciously, desultorily, more in a frolicsome 
 spirit of camaraderie than anything else. Like an 
 amateur, in short — a distinguished amateur who is 
 too proud to sell his pictures, but willingly gives one 
 away now and then to some highly valued and much 
 admiring friend. 
 
 Sheer gayety of heart and genial good-fellowship, 
 the difficulty of saying nay to earnest pleading. She 
 w^as " bonne camarade et bonne fille " before every- 
 thing. Though her heart was not large enough to 
 harbor more than one light love at a time (even in 
 that Latin quarter of genially capacious hearts), it had 
 room for many w^arra friendships; and. she was the 
 warmest, most helpful, and most compassionate of 
 friends, far more serious and faithful in friendship 
 than in love. 
 
 Indeed, she might almost be said to possess a vir- 
 ginal heart, so little did she know of love's heart- 
 aches and raptures and torments and clingings and 
 jealousies. 
 
 With her it was lightly come and lightly go, and 
 never come back again ; as one or two, or perhaps 
 three, picturesque boheraians of the brush or chisel 
 had found, at some cost to their vanity and self-es- 
 teem; perhaps even to a deeper feeling — who knows? 
 
54 
 
 Trilby's father, as she had said, had been a gentle- 
 man, the son of a famous Dublin physician and friend 
 of George the Fourth's. He had been a fellow of his 
 college, and had entered holy orders. He also had all 
 the virtues but one ; he was a drunkard, and began to 
 drink quite early in life. He soon left the Church, 
 and became a classical tutor, and failed through this 
 besetting sin of his, and fell into disgrace. 
 
 Then he went to Paris, and picked up a few English 
 pupils there, and lost thera, and earned a precarious 
 livelihood from hand to mouth, anyhow ; and sank 
 from bad to worse. 
 
 And when his worst was about reached, he married 
 the famous tartaned and tamoshantered bar -maid 
 at the Montagnards Ecossais, in the Rue du Paradis 
 Poissonniere (a very fishy paradise indeed); she was 
 a most beautiful Highland lassie of low degree, and 
 she managed to support him, or helped him to sup- 
 port himself, for ten or fifteen years. Trilby was born 
 to them, and was dragged up in some way^« la grace 
 de D'leu ! 
 
 Patrick O'Ferrall soon taught his wife to drown all 
 care and responsibiHty in his own simple way, and 
 opportunities for doing so were never lacking to her. 
 
 Then he died, and left a posthumous child — born 
 ten months after his death, alas ! and whose birth cost 
 its mother her life. 
 
 Then Trilby became a hlancMsseuse de fin, and in 
 two or three years came to grief through her trust in 
 a friend of her mother's. Then she became a model 
 besides, and was able to support her little brother, whom 
 she dearly loved. 
 
55 
 
 At the time this story begins, this small waif and 
 stray was " en pension " with le pere Martin, the rag- 
 picker, and his wife, the dealer in bric-a-brac and in- 
 expensive old masters. They were very good people, 
 and had grown fond of the child, who was beautiful 
 to look at, and full of pretty tricks and pluck and 
 cleverness — a popular favorite in the Rue du Puits 
 d'Amour and its humble neighborhood. 
 
 Trilby, for some freak, always chose to speak of him 
 as her godson, and as the grandchild of le pere et la 
 mere Martin, so that these good people had ahnost 
 grown to believe he really belonged to them. 
 
 And ahnost every one else believed that he was the 
 child of Trilby (in spite of her youth), and she was so 
 fond of him that she didn't mind in the least. 
 
 He might have had a worse home. 
 
 La mere Martin was pious, or pretended to be; le 
 pore Martin was the reverse. But they Avere equally 
 good for their kind, and, though coarse and igno- 
 rant and unscrupulous in many ways (as was natural 
 enough), they were gifted in a very full measure with 
 the saving graces of love and charity, especially he. 
 And if people are to be judged by their works, this 
 worthy pair are no doubt both equally well compen- 
 sated by now for the trials and struggles of their sor- 
 did earthly life. 
 
 So much for Trilby's parentage. 
 
 And as she sat and wept at Madame Doche's imper- 
 sonation of la Dame aux Camelias (with her hand in 
 Durien's) she vaguely remembered, as in a waking 
 dream, now the noble presence of Taffy as he towered 
 cool and erect, foil in hand, gallantly waiting for his 
 
56 
 
 adversary to breathe, now the beautiful sensitive face 
 of Little Billee and his deferential courtesy. 
 
 And during the entr'actes her heart Avent out in 
 friendship to the jolly Scotch Laird of Cockpen, who 
 came out now and then with such terrible French 
 oaths and abominable expletives (and in the presence 
 of ladies, too !), without the slightest notion of what 
 they meant. 
 
 For the Laird had a quick ear, and a craving to be 
 colloquial and idiomatic before everything else, and 
 made many awkward and embarrassing mistakes. 
 
 It would be with him as though a polite French- 
 man should say to a fair daughter of Albion, " D 
 
 my eyes, raees, your tea is getting cold ; let me 
 
 tell that good old of a Jules to bring you another 
 
 cup." 
 
 And so forth, till time and experience taught him 
 better. It is perhaps well for him that his first exper- 
 iments in conversational French were made in the un- 
 conventional circle of the Place St. Anatole des Arts. 
 
IPart ScconD 
 
 "Dieii ! qu'il fait bon la regaider, 
 La gracieuse, bonne et belle ! 
 Pour les grands biens qui sent en elle 
 Chacuu est prgt de la louer." 
 
 Nobody knew exactly how Svengali lived, and very 
 few knew where (or why). He occupied a roomy di- 
 lapidated garret, au sixieme, in the Rue Tire-Liard ; 
 with a truckle-bed and a piano-forte for furniture, and 
 very little else. 
 
 He was poor ; for in spite of his talent he had not 
 yet made his mark in Paris. His manners may have 
 been accountable for this. He Avould either fawn or 
 bally, and could be grossly impertinent. He had a 
 kind of cynical humor, which was more offensive than 
 amusing, and always laughed at the wrong thing, at 
 the wrong time, in the wrong place. And his laughter 
 was always derisive and full of malice. And his ego- 
 tism and conceit were not to be borne ; and then he 
 was both tawdry and dirty in his person ; more greas- 
 ily, mattedly unkempt than even a really successful 
 pianist has any right to be, even in the best society. 
 
 Pie was not a nice man, and there was no pathos in 
 his poverty — a poverty that was not honorable, and 
 need not have existed at all ; for he was constantly re- 
 ceiving supplies from his own people in Austria — his 
 old father and mother, his sisters, his cousins, and his 
 
58 
 
 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 of himself as a master of his art— the 
 master ; for he despised, or affected to despise, all other 
 musicians, living or dead — even those whose work he 
 interpreted so divinely, and pitied them for not hear- 
 ing Svengali give utterance to their music, which of 
 course they could not utter themselves. 
 
 " lis safent tous un peu toucher du biano, mals pas 
 grand'chose !" 
 
 He had been the best pianist of his time at the Con- 
 servatory 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 
 own to any music he pla3"ed, except the highest and 
 best of all, in which he conspicuously failed. 
 
 He had to draw the line just above Chopin, where 
 he reached his highest level. It will not do to lend 
 your own quite peculiar individual charm to 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 in Germany, in Italy, in France, with 
 the forlorn hope of evolving from some inner recess a 
 voice to sing with. But nature had been singularly 
 harsh to him in this one respect — inexorable. He was 
 absolutely without voice, beyond the harsh, hoarse, 
 weak raven's croak he used to speak with, and no 
 method availed to make one for him. But he grew to 
 understand the human voice as perhaps no one has 
 understood it— before or since. 
 
59 
 
 So in his head he went forever singing, singing, sing- 
 ing, as probably no human nightingale has ever yet 
 been able to sing out loud for the glory and delight of 
 his fellow-mortals ; making unheard heavenly melody 
 of the cheapest, trivialest tunes — tunes of the cafe 
 concert, tunes of the nursery, the shop -parlor, the 
 guard-room, the school-room, the pothouse, the slum. 
 There was nothing so humble, so base even, but that 
 his magic could transform it into the rarest beauty 
 without altering a note. This seems impossible, I 
 know. But if it didn't, where would the magic come 
 in? 
 
 Whatever of heart or conscience — pity, love, tender- 
 ness, manliness, courage, reverence, charity — endowed 
 him at his birth had been swallowed up by this one 
 faculty, and nothing of them was left for the common 
 uses of life. He poured them 
 all into his little flexible flag- 
 eolet. 
 
 Svengali playing Chopin on 
 the piano -forte, even (or espe- 
 cially) Svengali playing " Ben 
 Bolt " on that penny whistle of 
 his, was as one of the heav^enly 
 host. 
 
 Svengali walking up and 
 down the earth seeking whom 
 he might cheat, betray, exploit, 
 
 borrow money from, make brutal fun of, bully if he 
 dared, cringe to if he must — man, woman, child, or 
 dog — was about as bad as they make 'em. 
 
 To earn a few pence when he couldn't borrow them 
 
 ' AS BAD AS THEY MAKE 'eM " 
 
60 
 
 he played accompaniments at cafe concerts, and even 
 then he gave offence; for in his contempt for the 
 singer he would play too loud, and embroider his ac- 
 companiments with brilliant improvisations of his own, 
 and lift his hands 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 at 
 the audience, and do all he could to attract their at- 
 tention 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 with- 
 out the sou, always borrowing money, that he never 
 paid back, and exhausting the pockets and the pa- 
 tience of one acquaintance after another. 
 
 He had but two friends. There was Gecko, who 
 lived in a little garret close by in the Impasse des Ra- 
 moneurs, and who was second violin in the orchestra 
 of the Gymnase, and shared his humble earnings with 
 his master, to whom, indeed, he owed his great talent, 
 not yet revealed to the world. 
 
 Svengali's other friend and pupil was (or rather had 
 been) the mysterious 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 Mimi la Salope) was a dirty, drabby 
 little dolly-mop of a Jewess, a model for the figure — 
 a very humble person indeed, socially. 
 
 She was, however, of a very lively disposition, and 
 had a charming voice, and a natural gift of singing so 
 sweetly that you forgot her accent, which was that of 
 the " tout ce qu'il y a de plus canaille." 
 
61 
 
 She used to sit at Carrel's, and during the pose she 
 would sing. When Little Billee first heard her he was 
 so fascinated that " it made him sick to think she sat 
 for the figure"— an effect, by -the- way, that was al- 
 ways produced upon him by all specially attractive 
 figure models of the gentler sex, for he had a rever- 
 ence for woman. And before everything else, he had 
 for the singing woman an absolute worship. He was 
 especially thrall to the contralto — the deep low voice 
 that breaks and changes in the middle and soars all at 
 once into a magnified angelic boy treble. It pierced 
 through his ears to his heart, and stirred his very 
 vitals. 
 
 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 before 
 the lovely female voice singing in the middle of the 
 note — the nightingale killed the bird-of-paradise. 
 
 I need hardly say that poor Mimi la Salope had 
 not the voice of Madame Alboni, 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 
 quick seduction. 
 
 She sang little songs of Beranger's — ^" Grand'mere, 
 parlez-nous de lui!" or "T'en souviens-tu? disait un 
 capitaine — " or " Enfants, c'est moi qui suis Lisette !" 
 and such like pretty things, that almost brought the 
 tears to Little Billee's easily moistened eyes. 
 
 But soon she would sing little songs that were not 
 by Beranger — little songs with slang words Little 
 Billee hadn't French enough to understand ; but from 
 the kind of laughter with which the points were re- 
 
62 
 
 ceived by the"rapins" in Carrel's studio he guessed 
 these little songs were vile, though the touching little 
 voice was as that of the seraphim still ; and he knew 
 the pang of disenchantment and vicarious shame. 
 
 Svengali had heard her sing at the Brasserie des 
 Porcherons in the Rue du Crapaud-v'olant, and had 
 volunteered to teach her ; and she went to see him in 
 his garret, and he played to her, and leered and ogled, 
 and flashed his bold, black, beady Jew's eyes into hers, 
 and she straightway mentally prostrated herself in 
 reverence and adoration before this dazzling specimen 
 of her race. 
 
 So that her sordid, mercenary little gutter-draggled 
 soul was filled with the sight and the sound of him, 
 as of a lordh^, godlike, shawm-plajing, cymbal-bang- 
 ing hero and prophet of the Lord God of Israel — 
 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 of Pabylon," his 
 " cazelle-eyed liddle Cherusalem skylark " — and prom- 
 ised her that she should be the queen of the nightin- 
 gales. 
 
 But before he could teach her anything he had to 
 unteach her all she knew ; her breathing, the produc- 
 tion of her voice, its emission — everything was wrong. 
 She worked indefatigably to please him, and soon 
 succeeded in forgetting all the pretty little sympa- 
 thetic tricks of voice and phrasing Mother Nature 
 had taught her. 
 
 But though she had an exquisite ear, she had no 
 real musical intelligence — no intelligence of any kind 
 
"a voice he didn't understand" 
 
64 
 
 except about sous and centimes ; she was as stupid as 
 a little downy owl, and her voice was just a light 
 native warble, a throstle's pipe, all in the head and 
 nose and throat (a voice he didnH understand, for 
 once), a thing of mere youth and health and bloom 
 and high spirits — like her beauty, such as it was — 
 heaute du diahle, heaute damnee. 
 
 She did her very best, and practised all she could 
 in this new way, and sang herself hoarse : she scarce- 
 ly ate or slept for practising. He grew harsh and irn- 
 patient and coldly severe, and of course she loved him 
 all the more; and the more she loved him the more 
 nervous she got and the worse she sang. Her voice 
 cracked ; her ear became demoralized ; her attempts 
 to vocalize grew almost as comical as Trill^y's. So 
 that he lost his temper completely, and called her ter- 
 rible names, and pinched and punched her with his 
 big bony hands till she wept worse than J^iobe, and 
 borrowed money of her— five-franc pieces, even francs 
 and demifrancs — which he never paid her back ; and 
 browbeat and bullied and ballyragged her till she 
 went quite mad for love of him, and would have 
 jumped 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 have given him no pleasure to speak 
 of. But one fine Sabbath morning (a Saturday, of 
 course) he took her by the shoulders and chucked 
 her, neck and crop, out of his garret, vfith the threat 
 that if she ever dared to show her face there again 
 he would denounce her to the police — an awful threat 
 to the likes of poor Mimi la Salope ! 
 
65 
 
 "For where did all those five -franc pieces come 
 from — hein ? — with which she had tried to pay for all 
 the singing-lessons that had been thrown away upon 
 her ? Not from merely sitting to painters — Tiein f 
 
 Thus the little gazelle-eyed Jerusalem skylark went 
 back to her native streets again — a mere mud -lark 
 of the Paris slums — her Avings clipped, her spirit 
 quenched and broken, and with no more singing left 
 in her than 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 a tremendous longing to spend 
 a happy day ; for it was a Sunday, and a very fine 
 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 ; no silver, no 
 gold, only a few sous and two-sou pieces, just enough 
 to pay for a meagre premier dejeuner ! 
 
 He had cleared out Gecko the day before, and 
 spent the proceeds (ten francs, at least) in one night's 
 riotous living — pleasures in which Gecko had had no 
 share ; and he could think of no one to borrow money 
 from but Little Billee, Taffy, and the Laird, whom he 
 had neglected and left untapped for days. 
 
 So he slipped into his clothes, and looked at himself 
 in what remained of a little zinc mirror, and found 
 that his forehead left little to be desired, but that his 
 eyes and temples were decidedly grimy. Wherefore, 
 he poured a little water out of a little jug into a little 
 
66 
 
 basin, and, twisting the corner of his pocket-handker- 
 chief round his dirty forefinger, he delicately dipped 
 it, and removed the offending stains. His fingers, he 
 thought, would do very well for another day or two 
 as they were ; he ran them through his matted black 
 mane, pushed it behind his ears, and gave it the twist 
 he liked (and that was so much disliked by his Eng- 
 lish friends). Then he put on his beret and his velvet- 
 een cloak, and went forth into the sunny streets, with 
 a sense of the fragrance and freedom and pleasant- 
 ness of Sunday morning in Paris in the month of May. 
 
 He found Little Billee sitting in a zinc hip-bath, 
 busy with soap and sponge ; and was so tickled and 
 interested by the sight that he quite forgot for the 
 moment what he had come for. 
 
 "Hiramel! Why the devil are you doing that?" 
 he asked, in his German-Hebrew-French. 
 
 " Doing lohat f asked Little Billee, in his French 
 of Stratford-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 his ablution after the hissing, splash- 
 ing, energetic fashion of Englishmen ; and Svengali 
 laughed loud and long at the spectacle of a little 
 Englishman trying to get himself clean — "tachant 
 de se nettoyer !" 
 
 When such cleanliness had been attained as w^as 
 possible under the circumstances, Svengali begged for 
 
67 
 
 the loan of two hundred francs, and Little Billee gave 
 him a five-franc piece. 
 
 Content with this, faute de mieux, the German 
 asked him when he would be trying to get himself 
 clean again, as he would 
 much like to come and see 
 him do it. 
 
 " Demang raatfcang, a votre 
 sairveece !" said Little Billee, 
 with a courteous bow. 
 
 " What I ! Monday too ! ! 
 Gott in liimmel ! you try to 
 get yourself clean every day V 
 
 And he laughed himself 
 out of the room, out of the 
 house, out of the Place de 
 rOdeon — all the way to the 
 Rue de Seine, where dwelt 
 the " Man of Blood," whom 
 he meant to propitiate with 
 the story of that original, 
 Little Billee, trying to get 
 himself clean — that he might 
 borrow another five -franc 
 piece, or perhaps two. 
 
 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 dirty 
 forefinger at the huge naked Briton, that Taffy was 
 offended, and all but lost his temper. 
 
 " What the devil are you cackling at, sacred head 
 
 AND SO, NO MORE.' 
 
68 
 
 of pig that you are ? Do you want to be pitched out 
 of that window into the Kue de Seine? You filthy 
 black Hebrew sweep ! Just you wait a bit ; Pll wash 
 your head for you !" 
 
 And Taffy jumped out of his bath, such a towering 
 figure of righteous Herculean wrath that Svengali was 
 appalled, and fled. 
 
 " Donnervvetter !" he exclaimed, as he tumbled down 
 the narrow staircase of the Hotel de Seine ; " what for 
 a thick head ! what for a pigdog ! what for a rotten, 
 brutal, verfluchter kerl of an Englander !" 
 
 Then he paused for thought. 
 
 " l^ow will I go to that Scottish Englander, in the 
 Place St. Anatole des Arts, for that other five-franc 
 piece. But first will I wait a little while till he has 
 perhaps finished trying to get himself clean." 
 
 So he breakfasted at the cremerie Souchet, in the 
 Rue Clopin-Clopant, and, feeling quite safe again, he 
 laughed and laughed till his very sides were sore. 
 
 Two Englanders in one day — as naked as your 
 hand ! — a big one and a little one, trying to get them- 
 selves 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 as dirty in a week as in a lifetime, 
 so what's the use of taking such a lot of trouble ? Be- 
 sides, so long as you are clean enough to suit your 
 kind, to be any cleaner would be priggish and pedan- 
 tic, and get you disliked. 
 
 Just as Svengali was about to knock at the Laird's 
 door, Trilby came down -stairs from Durien's, very 
 
t)9 
 
 unlike herself. Her eyes were red with weeping, and 
 there were great black rings round them ; she was 
 pale under her freckles. 
 
 " Fous afez du chacrin, matemoiselle ?" asked he. 
 
 She told him that she had neuralgia in her e^'es, a 
 thing she was subject to ; that the pain was madden- 
 ing, 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) were evidently 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 of poor 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, and bade her look him well in the 
 white of the eyes. 
 
 " Recartez-moi pien tans le plane tes yeux." 
 
 Then he made Httle passes and counterpasses on her 
 forehead and temples and down her cheek and neck. 
 Soon her eyes closed and her face grew placid. After 
 a while, a quarter of an hour perhaps, he asked her if 
 she suffered still. 
 
 " Oh ! presqiie 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 in Diisseldorf), 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 to 
 open her eyes, 
 but could not, 
 and said so. 
 
 Then Svengali 
 said, again in 
 German, " She 
 shall not open 
 her mouth. Ask 
 her." 
 " Why couldn't you open your eyes, Miss Trilby ?" 
 She strained to open her mouth and speak, but in vain. 
 " She shall not rise from the divan. Ask her." 
 But Trilby was spellbound, and could not move. 
 
 '"two englanders in one day'" 
 
71 
 
 " I will now set her free," said Svengali. 
 
 And, lo ! she got up and waved her arms, and cried, 
 " Vive la Prusse ! me v'la guerie !" and in her grati- 
 tude she kissed Svengali's hand ; and he leered, and 
 showed his big brown teeth and the yellow whites at 
 the top of his big black eyes, and drew his breath wuth 
 a hiss. 
 
 " N^ow I'll go to Durien's and sit. How can I thank 
 you, monsieur ? You have taken all my pain away." 
 
 " Yes, matemoiselle. I have got it myself ; it is in 
 my elbows. But I love it, because it comes from you. 
 Every time you have pain you shall come to me, 12 
 Kue Tire-Liard, au sixieme au-dessus de I'entresol, and 
 I will cure you and take your pain myself — " 
 
 " Oh, you are too good !" and in her high spirits she 
 turned round on her heel and uttered her portentous 
 war-cry, " Milk below !" The very rafters rang 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 w^onderful cry, matemoiselle — wunder- 
 schon ! It comes straight through the heart ; it has 
 its roots in the stomach, and blossoms into music 
 on the lips like the voice of Madame Alboni— voce 
 sulle labbre 1 It is good production — c'est un cri du 
 coeur !" 
 
 Trilby blushed with pride and pleasure. 
 
 " Yes, matemoiselle ! I only know one person in 
 the whole world who can produce 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. 
 
72 
 
 I have unfortunately no voice to produce, ... It is 
 a waiter at the Cafe de la Rotonde, in the Palais 
 Royal ; when you call for coffee, he says ' Bourn !' in 
 basso profondo. Tiefstimme — F. moll below the line 
 — it is phenomenal ! It is like a cannon — a cannon 
 also has very good production, matemoiselle. They 
 pay him for it a thousand francs a year, because he 
 brings many customers to the Cafe de la Eotonde^ 
 where the coffee isn't very good. When he dies they 
 will search all France for another, and then all Ger- 
 many, where the good big waiters come from — and 
 the cannons — but they will not find bim, and the 
 Cafe de ia Rotonde will be bankrupt — unless you will 
 consent to take his place. Will you permit that I 
 shall look into 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 Pantheon ; there is room in it for ' toutes les 
 gloires de la France,' and a little to spare ! The en- 
 trance to your throat is like the middle porch of St. 
 Sulpice when the doors are open for the faithful on All- 
 Saints' day ; and not one tooth is missing — thirty-two 
 British teeth as white as milk and as big as knuckle- 
 bones ! and your little tongue is scooped out like the 
 leaf of a pink peony, and the bridge of your nose is 
 like the belly of a Stradivarius — what a sounding- 
 board ! and inside your beautiful big chest the lungs 
 are made of leather ! and your breath, it embalms — 
 like the breath of a beautiful white heifer fed on the 
 buttercups and daisies of the Vaterland ! and you 
 have a quick, soft, susceptible heart, a heart of gold, 
 matemoiselle — all that sees itself in your face ! 
 
"'himmel! the roof of tour mouth'" 
 
74 
 
 " ' Votre copur est un luth suspendu ! 
 
 Aussitot qu'on le touche, il lesonne. . . .* 
 
 What a pity you have not also the musical organiza- 
 tion !" 
 
 " 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, mate- 
 moiselle, you look another way and smoke a cigarette. 
 . . . You look at the big Taffy, at the Little Billee, 
 at the pictures on the walls, or out of window, at the 
 sky, the chimney-pots of Notre Dame de Paris ; you 
 do not look at Svengali ! — Svengali, who looks at you 
 with all his eyes, and plays you the ' Rosemonde ' of 
 Schubert !" 
 
 " Oh, maie, aie !" exclaimed Trilby ; " you do use 
 lovely language !" 
 
 "But never mind, matemoiselle ; when your pain 
 arrives, then shall you come once more to Svengali, 
 and he shall take it away from you, and keep it him- 
 self for a soufenir of you "when you are gone. And 
 when you have it no more, he shall play you the 
 ' Rosemonde ' of Schubert, all alone for you ; and 
 then, 'Messieurs les etutiants, montez a la chaumicre!' 
 . . . because it is gayer ! And you shall see noth- 
 ing, hear nothing, think of nothing hut Smngali, Sven- 
 gali, Svengali P 
 
 Here he felt his peroration to be so happy and 
 effective that he thought it well to go at once and 
 make a good exit. So he bent over Trilby's shapely 
 freckled hand and kissed it, and bowed himself out 
 
75 
 
 of the room, without even borrowing his five -franc 
 piece. 
 
 " He's a rum 'un, ain't he ?" said Trilby. " He re- 
 minds me of a big hungry spider, and makes me feel 
 like a fly ! But he's cured my pain ! he's cured my 
 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 
 tlian have it cured in that unnatural way, and by such 
 a man as that ! He's a bad fellow, Svengali — I'm sure 
 of it ! He mesmerized you ; that's what it is — mes- 
 merism ! I've often heard of it, but never seen it done 
 before. They get you into their power, and just make 
 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 just too terrible 
 to think of !" 
 
 So spake the Laird, earnestly, solemnly, surprised 
 out of his usual self, and most painfully impressed — 
 and his own impressiveness grew upon him and im- 
 pressed him still more. He loomed quite prophetic. 
 
 Cold shivers went down Trilby's back as she lis- 
 tened. She had a singularly impressionable nature, 
 as was shown by her quick and ready susceptibility 
 to Svengali's hypnotic influence. And all that day, 
 as she posed for Durien (to whom she did not men- 
 tion her adventure), she was haunted by the memory 
 of Svengali's big eyes and the touch of his soft, dirty 
 finger-tips on her face; and her fear and her repul- 
 sion grew together. 
 
 And "• Svengali, Svengali, Svengali !" went ringing 
 
76 
 
 in her head and ears till it became an obsession, a 
 dirge, a knell, an unendurable burden, almost as hard 
 to bear as the pain in her eyes. 
 
 '■^Svengali^ Svengali^ SvengaliP'' 
 
 At last she asked Durien if he knew him. 
 
 " Parbleu ! Si je connais Svengali !" 
 
 " Quest-ce que t'en penses V 
 
 " Quand il sera mort, ya fera une fameuse crapule 
 de moins !" 
 
 "CHEZ CAEREL." 
 
 Carrel's atelier (or painting-school) was in the Rue 
 Notre Dame des Potirons St. Michel, at the end of 
 a large court-3'ard, where there were many large dirty 
 windows facing north, and each window let the light 
 of heaven into a large dirty studio. 
 
 The largest of these studios, and the dirtiest, was 
 Carrel's, where some thirty or fort)' art students drew 
 and painted from the nude model every day but Sun- 
 day from eight till twelve, and for two hours in tlie 
 afternoon, except on Saturday's, when the afternoon 
 was devoted to much-needed Augean sweepings and 
 cleanings. 
 
 One week the model was male, the next female, and 
 so on, alternating throughout the year. 
 
 A stove, a model -throne, stools, boxes, some fifty 
 strongly built low chairs with backs, a couple of 
 score easels and many drawing-boards, completed the 
 mobilier. 
 
 The bare walls were adorned with endless carica- 
 tures — des charges— in charcoal and white chalk ; and 
 
" ' 5A FERA UNE FAMEUSE CRAPULE 
 DE MOINS ' " 
 
 also the scrapings of 
 many palettes — a poly- 
 chromous decoration not 
 unpleasing. 
 
 For the freedom of 
 the studio and the use 
 
 of the model each student paid ten francs a month to 
 the massier, or senior student, the responsible bell- 
 wether of the flock; besides this, it was expected of 
 you, on your entrance or initiation, that you should 
 pay for your footing — your hhnmenue — some thirty, 
 forty, or fifty francs, to be spent on cakes and rum 
 punch all round. 
 
 Every Friday Monsieur Carrel, a great artist, and 
 also a stately, well-dressed, and most courteous gentle- 
 man (duly decorated with the red rosette of the Legion 
 of Honor), came for two or three hours and went the 
 
78 
 
 round, spending a few minutes at each drawing-board 
 or easel — ten or even twelve when the pupil was an 
 industrious and promising one. 
 
 He did this for love, not money, and deserved all 
 the reverence with which he inspired this somewhat 
 irreverent and most unruly company, which Avas made 
 up of all sorts. 
 
 Graybeards who had been drawing and painting 
 there for thirty years and more, and remembered 
 other masters than Carrel, and who could draw and 
 paint a torso almost as well as Titian or Velasquez — 
 almost, but not quite — and who could never do any- 
 thing else, and were fixtures at Carrel'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 of the master ; others 
 as conspicuously singled out for failure and future 
 mischance — 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 
 and mischief — "blague et bagout Parisien"; little 
 lords of misrule — wits, butts, bullies ; the idle and in- 
 dustrious apprentice, the good and the bad, the clean 
 and the dirty (especially the latter) — all more or less 
 animated by a certain esprit de corps, and working 
 very happily and genially together, on the whole, and 
 always willing to help each other with sincere artistic 
 counsel if it were asked for seriously, though it was 
 not always couched in terms very flattering to one's 
 self-love. 
 
 Before Little Billee became one of this band of 
 
79 
 
 brothers he had been working for three or four years 
 in a London art school, drawing and painting from 
 the life ; he had also worked from the antique in the 
 British Museum — so that he was no novice. 
 
 As he made his debut at Carrel's one Monday morn- 
 ing he felt somewhat shy and ill at ease. He had 
 studied French most earnestly at home in England, 
 and could read it pretty well, and even write it and 
 speak it after a fashion ; but he spoke it with much 
 difficulty, and found studio French a different lan- 
 guage altogether from the formal and polite language 
 he had been at such pains to learn. Ollendorff does 
 not cater for the quartier latin. Acting on Taffy's 
 advice — for Taffy had worked under Carrel — Little 
 Billee handed sixty francs to the massier for his hien- 
 venue — a lordly sum — and this liberality made a most 
 favorable impression, and went far to destroy any 
 little prejudice that might have been caused by the 
 daintiness of his dress, the cleanliness of his person, 
 and the politeness of his manners. A place was as- 
 signed to him, and an easel and a board ; for he 
 elected to stand at his work and begin with a chalk 
 drawing. The model (a male) was posed, and work 
 began in silence. Monday morning is always rather 
 sulky everywhere (except perhaps in judee). During 
 the ten minutes' rest three or four students came and 
 looked at Little Billee's beginnings, and saw at a 
 glance that he 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 was ambidextrous, and could use 
 both with equal skill ; and a few months' practice at 
 
80 
 
 a London life school bad quite cured him of that pur- 
 poseless indecision of touch which often characterizes 
 the prentice hand for years of apprenticeship, and re- 
 mains with the amateur for life. The lightest and 
 most careless of his pencil strokes had a precision that 
 was inimitable, and a charm that specially belonged 
 to him, and was easy to recognize at a glance. His 
 touch on either canvas or paper was like Svengali's 
 on the key-board — unique. 
 
 As the morning ripened httle attempts at conversa- 
 tion were made — little breakings of the ice of silence. 
 It was Lambert, a youth with a singularly facetious 
 face, who first Avoke the stillness witli the following un- 
 called-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 
 tete, I'Anglais." 
 
 But I will put it all into English: 
 
 •'I find that he has a pretty head — the Englishman ! 
 What say you, BarizeU" 
 
 "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 teeth in front like the double blank 
 at dominos ?" 
 
 " Because he's an Englishman !" 
 
 " Yes ; but why has he got a back without any 
 
bend in it, as if he'd swallowed the Colonne Yendome 
 as far up as the battle of Austerlitz ?" 
 
 " Because he's an Englishman !" 
 
 And so on, till all the supposed characteristics of 
 Little Billee's outer man were exhausted. Then : 
 
 " Papelard !" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "/should like to know if the Englishman says his 
 prayers before going to bed." 
 
 " Ask him." 
 
 "Ask him yourself!" 
 
 "/should like to know if the Englishman has sis- 
 ters ; and if so, how old and how many and what 
 sex." 
 
 " Ask him." 
 
 " Ask him yourself !" 
 
 " / should like to know the detailed and circum- 
 stantial history of the Englishman's first love, and 
 how he lost his innocence !" 
 
 " Ask him," etc., etc., etc. 
 
 Little Billee, conscious that he w^as the object of 
 conversation, grew somewhat nervous. Soon he was 
 addressed directly. 
 
 " Dites done, 1' Anglais ?" 
 
 " Kwaw ?" said Little Billee. 
 
 " Avez-vous une soeur ?" 
 
 "Wee." 
 
 "Est-ce qu'elle vous ressemble?" 
 
 " Nong." 
 
 " C'est bien dommage ! Est-ce qu'elle dit ses prieres, 
 le soir, en se couchant ?" 
 
 A fierce look came into Little Billee's eyes and a 
 
83 
 
 redness to his cheeks, and this particular form of 
 overture to friendship was abandoned. 
 
 Presently Lambert said, " Si nous mettions 1' Anglais 
 a I'echelle ?" 
 
 Little Billee, who had been warned, knew what this 
 ordeal meant. 
 
 They tied you to a ladder, and carried you in pro- 
 cession up and down the court-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 this indignity, and the ladder (which 
 was used for reaching the high shelves round the stu- 
 dio) was got ready. 
 
 Little Billee smiled a singularly winning smile, and 
 suffered himself to be bound witli such good -humor 
 that they voted it wasn't amusing, and unbound him, 
 and he escaped the ordeal by ladder. 
 
 Taffy had also escaped, but in another way. When 
 they tried to seize him he took up the first rapin that 
 came to hand, and, using him as a kind of club, he 
 swung him about so freely and knocked down so many 
 students and 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 of strength 
 of such a surprising kind that the memory of him re- 
 mained in Carrel'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 was seven 
 feet high, and used to juggle with the massier and 
 model as with a pair of billiard balls, using only his 
 left hand ! 
 
 To return to Little Billee. When it struck twelve, 
 
84 
 
 the cakes and rum punch arrived — a very goodly sight 
 that put every one in a good temper. 
 
 The cakes were of three kinds — Babas, Madeleines, 
 and Savarins — three sous apiece, fourpence half-pennv 
 the set of three. No nicer cakes are made in France, 
 and they are as good in the quartier latin as anywhere 
 else ; no nicer cakes are made in the whole world, that 
 I know of. You must begin with the Madeleine, which 
 is rich and rather heavy ; then the Baba ; and finish 
 up with the Savarin, w4iich is shaped like a ring, very 
 light, and flavored with rum. And then you must 
 really leave oflf. 
 
 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 on for Little Billee, who dispensed his 
 hospitality in a very polite and attractive manner, 
 helping the massier first, and then the other gray- 
 beards 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 sing them an English song. After a lit- 
 tle pressing he sang them a song about a gay cavalier 
 who went to serenade his mistress (and a ladder of 
 ropes, and a pair of masculine gloves that didn't be- 
 long to the gay cavalier, but which he found in his 
 lady's bower) — a poor sort of song, but it was the 
 nearest approach to a comic song he knew. There are 
 four verses to it, and each verse is rather long. It 
 does not sound at all funny to a French audience, and 
 even with an English one Little Billee was not good 
 at comic soncifs. 
 
86 
 
 He was, however, much applauded at the end of 
 each verse. When he had finished, he was aslved if 
 he were quite sure there wasn't any more of it, and 
 they expressed a deep regret ; and then eacli student, 
 straddling on his little thick-set chair as on a liorse, 
 and clasping the back of it in both hands, galloped 
 round Little Billee's throne quite seriously — the strang- 
 est procession he had ever seen. It made him laugh 
 till he cried, so that he couldn't eat or drink. 
 
 Then he served more punch and cake all round ; 
 and just as he was going to begin himself, Papelard 
 said : 
 
 "Say, you others, I find that the Englishman has 
 something of truly distinguished in the voice, some- 
 thing of sympathetic, of touching — something of ^V 
 ne sais quoi /" 
 
 Bouchardy : " Yes, yes — something oijene sais quoi! 
 That's the very phrase — n'est-ce pas, vous autres, that 
 is a good phrase that Papelard has just invented to 
 describe the voice of the Englishman. He is very 
 intelligent, Papelard." 
 
 Chorus : " Perfect, perfect ; he has the genius of 
 characterization, Papelard. Dites done, I'Anglais ! 
 once more that beautiful song — hein ? Nous vous en 
 prions tous." 
 
 Little Billee willingly sang it again, wnth even great- 
 er applause, and again they galloped, but the other 
 way round and faster, so that Little Billee became 
 quite hysterical, and laughed till his sides ached. 
 
 Then Dubosc : " I find there is something of very 
 capitous and exciting in English music — of very stim- 
 ulating. And you, Bouchardy ?" 
 
87 
 
 Bouchardy : " Oh, me ! It is above all the words 
 that 1 admire ; they have something of passionate, 
 of romantic — ' ze-ese ghi-aves, zese gla-aves — zey do 
 not belong to me.' I don't know what that means, 
 bnt I love that sort of — of — oi—je ne sals quoi, in 
 short ! Just once more, 1' Anglais ; only once, the fotir 
 couplets." 
 
 So he sang it a third time, all four verses, while 
 they leisurely ate and drank and smoked and looked 
 at each other, nodding solemn commendation of cer- 
 tain phrases in the song: "Tres bien !" "Tres bien!" 
 " Ah ! voila qui est bien reussi !" " Epatant, ya !" 
 " Tres fin !" etc., etc. For, stimulated by success, and 
 rising to the occasion, he did his very utmost to sur- 
 pass himself in emphasis of gesture and accent and 
 histrionic drollery — heedless of the fact that not one 
 of his listeners had 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 the whole thing was an elaborate im- 
 promptu farce, of which he was the butt, and that of 
 all his royal spread not a crumb or a drop was left for 
 himself. 
 
 It was the old fable of the fox and the crow ! 
 And to do him justice, he laughed as heartily as 
 any one, as if he thoroughly enjoyed the joke — and 
 when you take jokes in that way people soon leave 
 off poking fun at you. It is almost as good as 
 being very big, like Taffy, and having a choleric blue 
 eye! 
 
 Such was Little Billee's first experience of Carrel's 
 
88 
 
 studio, where be spent many happy mornings and 
 made many good friends. 
 
 No more popular student had ever woi'ked there 
 within the memory oi" the grayest graybeards; none 
 more amiable, more genial, more cheerful, self-respect- 
 ing, considerate, and polite, and certainly none with 
 greater gifts for art. 
 
 Carrel would devote at least fifteen minutes to him, 
 and invited him often to his own private studio. And 
 often, on the fourth and (ii'th day of the week, a group 
 of admiring students would be gathered by his easel 
 watching him as he worked. 
 
 "Cost un rude lapin, TAnglais ! au moins il sait son 
 orthographe en pcinturc, cc coco-la !" 
 
 Such was the verdict on Little Jjillec at Carrel's 
 studio; and I can conceive no loftier praise. 
 
 Young as she was (seventeen or eighteen, or there- 
 abouts), and also tender (like Little IJillee), Trilby had 
 singularly clear and quick perceptions in all matters 
 that concerned her tastes, fancies, or affections, and 
 thoroughly knew her own mind, and never lost much 
 time in 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 min- 
 utes to decide that it was quite the nicest, homeliest, 
 genialest, jolliest studio in the whole quartier latin, 
 or out of it, and its three inhabitants, individually and 
 collectively, were more to her taste than any one else 
 she had ever met. 
 
90 
 
 In the first place, they were English, and she lored 
 to hear her mother-tongue and speak it. It awoke all 
 manner of tender recollections, sweet reminiscences of 
 her childhood, her parents, her old home — such a home 
 as it was — or, rather, such homes ; for there had been 
 many Sittings from one poor nest to another. The 
 O'Ferralls had been as birds on the bough. 
 
 She had loved her parents very dearly ; and, indeed, 
 with all their faults, they had many endearing quali- 
 ties — the qualities that so often go with those partic- 
 ular faults — charm, geniality, kindness, warmth of 
 heart, the constant wish to please, the generosity that 
 comes before justice, and lends its last sixpence and 
 forgets to pay its debts ! 
 
 She knew other English and American artists, and 
 had sat to them frequently for the head and hands ; 
 but none of these, for general agreeableness of aspect 
 or manner, could compare in her mind with the stal- 
 wart and magnificent Taffy, the joll}'^ fat Laird of 
 Cockpen, the refined, sympathetic, and elegant Little 
 Billee ; and she resolved that she would see as much 
 of them as she could, that she would make herself at 
 home in that particular studio, and necessary to its 
 " locataires " ; and, without being the least bit vain or 
 self-conscious, she had no doubts whatever of her pow- 
 er to please — to make herself both useful and orna- 
 mental if it suited her purpose to do so. 
 
 Her first step in this direction was to borrow Pere 
 Martin's basket and lantern 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 
 the freedom of her comments on his picture. 
 
91 
 
 Then, as often as she felt it to be discreet, she sound- 
 ed her war - cry at the studio door and went in and 
 made kind inquiries, and, sitting cross-legged on the 
 model-throne, ate her bread and cheese and smoked her 
 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 own immediate ken. She 
 was always full of little stories of other studios, which, 
 to do her justice, were always good-natured, and prob- 
 ably true — quite so, as far as she was concerned ; she 
 w^as the most literal person alive ; and she told all 
 these " ragots, cancans, et potins d'atelier " in a quaint 
 and amusing manner. The slightest look of gravity 
 or boredom on one of those three faces, and she made 
 herself scarce at once. 
 
 She soon found opportunities for usefulness also. 
 If a costume were wanted, for instance, she knew 
 where to borrow it, or hire it or buy it cheaper 
 than any one anywhere else. She procured stuffs for 
 them at cost price, as it seemed, and made them into 
 draperies and female garments of any kind that was 
 wanted, and sat in them for the toreador's sweetheart 
 (she made the mantilla herself), for Taffy's starving 
 dress-maker about to throw herself into the Seine, for 
 Little Billee's studies of the beautiful French peasant 
 girl in his picture, now so famous, called " The Pitcher 
 Goes to the Well." 
 
 Then she darned their socks and mended their 
 clothes, and got all their washing done properly and 
 cheaply at her friend Madame Boisse's, in the Rue des 
 Cloitres Ste. Petronille. 
 
 And then again, when they were hard up and want- 
 
92 
 
 ed a good round sum of money for some little pleas- 
 ure excursion, such as a trip to Fontainebleau or Bar- 
 bizon for two or three days, it was she wiio took their 
 watches and scarf-pins and things to the Mount of 
 Piety in the Street of the Well of Love (where dwelt 
 
 " ma tante," which is 
 French for " my uncle " 
 in this connection), in 
 order to raise the neces- 
 sary funds. 
 
 She was, of course, 
 most liberally paid for 
 all these little services, 
 rendered with such pleas- 
 ure and good - will — far 
 
 too liberally, she thought. She would have been 
 
 really happier doing them for love. 
 
 Thus in a very short time she became a persona 
 
 gratissima — a sunny and ever welcome vision of health 
 
 and grace and liveliness and unalterable good-humor, 
 
 THE LATIN QUARTER 
 
93 
 
 always ready to take any trouble to please her beloved 
 " Angliches," as they were called by Madame Vinard, 
 the handsome shrill-voiced concierge, who was almost 
 jealous; for she was devoted to the Angliches too — 
 and so was Monsieur Yinard — and so were the little 
 Vinards. 
 
 She knew when to talk and when to laugh and when 
 to hold her tongue ; and the sight of her sitting cross- 
 legged on the model-throne darning the Laird's socks 
 or sewing buttons on his shirts or repairing the smoke- 
 holes in his trousers was so pleasant that it was paint- 
 ed by all three. One of these sketches (in water-color, 
 by Little Billee) sold the other day at Christie's for 
 a sum so large that I hardly dare to mention it. It 
 was done in an afternoon. 
 
 Sometimes on a rainy day, when it Avas decided 
 they should dine at home, she would fetch the food 
 and cook it, and lay the cloth, and even make the 
 salad. She was a better saladist than Taffy, a better 
 cook than the Laird, a better caterer than Little Billee. 
 And she would be invited to take her share in the ban- 
 quet. And on these occasions her tremulous happiness 
 was so immense that it would be quite pathetic to see 
 — almost painful ; and their three British hearts were 
 touched by thoughts of all the loneliness and home- 
 lessness, the expatriation, the half -conscious loss of 
 caste, that all this eager childish clinging revealed. 
 
 And that is why (no doubt) that with all this fa- 
 miliar intimacy there was never any hint of gallantry 
 or flirtation in any shape or form whatever — bonne 
 camaraderie, voild tout. Had she been Little Billee's 
 sister she could not have been treated with more real 
 
94 
 
 respect. And her deep gratitude for this unwonted 
 compliment transcended an^^ passion she had ever felt. 
 As the good Lafontaine so prettily says, 
 
 " Ces aniraaux vivaient entre eux comme cousins ; 
 Cette union si douce, et presque fraternelle, 
 Edifiait tous les voisius !" 
 
 And then their talk ! It was to her as the talk of 
 the gods in Olympus, save that it was easier to under- 
 stand, and she could alwaj's understand it. For she 
 was a very intelligent person, in spite of her wofully 
 neglected education, and most ambitious to learn — a 
 new ambition for her. 
 
 So they lent her books — English books: Dickens, 
 Thackeray, AValter Scott — which she devoured in the 
 silence of the night, the solitude of her little attic in 
 the Rue des Pousse-Cailloux, and new worlds were re- 
 vealed to her. She grew more English every day; 
 and that was a good thing. 
 
 Trilby speaking English and Trilb}^ speaking French 
 were two ditferent beings. Trilbj^'s English was 
 more or less that of her father, a highly -educated 
 man ; her mother, who was a Scotch woman, although 
 an uneducated one, had none of the ungainliness that 
 mars the speech of so many English women in that 
 humble rank — no droppings of the h, no broadening 
 of the o's and a's. 
 
 Trilby's French was that of the quartier latin — 
 droll, slangy, piquant, quaint, picturesque — quite the 
 reverse of ungainly, but in which there was scarcely a 
 turn, of phrase that would not stamp the speaker as 
 
96 
 
 being hopelessly, emphatically " no lady !" Though 
 it was funny without being vulgar, it was perhaps a 
 little too funny ! 
 
 And she handled her knife and fork in the dainty 
 English way, as no doubt her father had done — and 
 his ; and, indeed, when alone with them she was so 
 absolutel}'^ "like a lady" that it seemed quite odd 
 (though very seductive) to see her in a grisette's cap 
 and dress and apron. So much for her English train- 
 ing. 
 
 But enter a Frenchman or two, and a transforma- 
 tion effected itself immediatel}^— a new incarnation of 
 Trilbyness — so droll and amusing that it was difficult 
 to decide which of her two incarnations was the most 
 attractive. 
 
 It must be admitted that she had her faults— like 
 Little Billee. 
 
 For instance, she would be miserablv jealous of any 
 other woman Avho came to tlie studio, to sit or scrub 
 or sweep or do anything else, even of the dirty tipsy 
 old hag who sat for Taffy's " found drowned" — "as if 
 she couldn't have sat for it herself !" 
 
 And then she would be cross and sulky, but not for 
 long— an injured martyr, soon ready to forgive and 
 be forgiven. 
 
 She would give up any sitting to come and sit to 
 her three English friends. Even Durien had serious 
 cause for complaint. 
 
 Then her affection was exacting: she always wanted 
 to be told one was fond of her, and she dearly loved 
 her own way, even in the sewing on of buttons and 
 the darning of socks, which was innocent enough. 
 
97 
 
 But when it came to the cutting and fashioning of 
 garments for a toreador's bride, 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 ; and this was 
 the aggravating side of her irrepressible Trilbyness. 
 
 In the caressing, demonstrative tenderness of her 
 friendship she "made the soft eyes" at all three in- 
 discriminately. But sometimes Little Billee would 
 look up from his work as she was sitting to Taffy or 
 the Laird, and find her gray eyes fixed on him with 
 an all-enfolding gaze, so piercingly, penetratingly, un- 
 utterably sweet and kind and tender, such a brooding, 
 dovelike look of soft and w^arm solicitude, that he 
 would feel a flutter at his heart, and his hand would 
 shake so that he could not paint ; and in a waking 
 dream he would remember that his mother had often 
 looked at him like that when he was a small boy, and 
 she a beautiful young woman untouched by care or 
 sorrow ; and the tear that always lay in readiness so 
 close to the corner of Little Billee's eye w^ould 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 go through him like a knife. 
 
 She did not sit promiscuously to anybody who 
 asked, it is true. But she still sat to Durien ; to the 
 great Gerome ; to M. Carrel, who scarcely used any 
 other model. 
 
 It was poor Trilby'^ sad distinction that she sur- 
 passed all other models as Calypso surpassed her 
 
98 
 
 nymphs ; and whether by long habit, or through some 
 obtuseness in her nature, or lack of imagination, she 
 was equally unconscious of self with her clothes on or 
 without ! Truly, she could be naked and unashamed 
 
 — in this respect an 
 absolute savage. 
 
 She would have 
 
 idden through Cov- 
 
 ', like Lad}' 
 
 " THE SOFT EYES " 
 
 Godiva — but without giving it a thought beyond won- 
 dering why the streets were empty and the shops 
 closed and the blinds pulled down — would even have 
 looked up to Peeping Tom's shutter with a friendly 
 nod, had she known he was behind it ! 
 In fact, she was absolutely without that kind of 
 
99 
 
 shame, as she was without any kind of fear. But she 
 was destined soon to know both fear and shame. 
 
 And here it would not be amiss for me to state a 
 fact well known to all painters and sculptors who 
 have used the nude model (except a few senile pre- 
 tenders, whose purity, not being of the right sort, has 
 gone rank from too much watching), namely, that 
 nothing is so chaste as nudity. Venus herself, as she 
 drops her garments and steps on to the model-throne, 
 leaves behind her on the floor every weapon in her 
 armory by which she can pierce to the grosser pas- 
 sions of man. The more perfect her unveiled beauty, 
 the more keenly it appeals to his higher instincts. 
 And where her beauty fails (as it almost always does 
 somewhere in the Venuses who sit for hire), the fail- 
 ure is so lamentably conspicuous in the studio light — 
 the fierce light that beats on this particular throne — 
 that Don Juan himself, who has not got to paint, were 
 fain to hide 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 beauty of man, the beauty of woman, the 
 heavenly beauty of the child, which is the sweetest 
 and best of all. 
 
 Indeed it is woman, lovely woman, whose beauty 
 falls the shortest, for sheer lack of proper physical 
 training. 
 
 As for Trilby, G , to whom she sat for his 
 
 Phryne, once told me that the sight of her thus was 
 a thing to melt Sir Galahad, and sober Silenus, and 
 chasten Jove himself — a thing to Quixotize a modern 
 French masher ! I can well believe him. For myself, 
 
100 
 
 I only speak of Trilby as I have seen her — clothed 
 and in her right mind. She never sat to rae for any 
 Phryne, never bared herself to rae, nor did I ever 
 dream of asking her. I would as soon have asked 
 the Queen of Spain to let me paint her legs ! But 
 I have worked from many female models in many 
 countries, some of them tlie best of their kind. I 
 have also, like Sv^engali, seen Taffy "trying to get 
 himself clean,'' either at home or in the swimming- 
 baths of the Seine ; and never a sitting woman 
 among them all who could match for grace or finish 
 or splendor of outward form that mighty Yorkshire- 
 man sitting in his tub, or sunning himself, like Ilyssus, 
 at the Bains Henri Quatre, or taking his running head- 
 er a la hussarde, off the spring-board at the Bains De- 
 ligny, with a group of wondering Frenchmen gath- 
 ered round. 
 
 Up he shot himself into mid-air with a sounding 
 double downward kick, parabolically ; then, turning 
 a splendid semi-demi-summersault against the sk}--, 
 down he came headlong, his body straight and stiff as 
 an arrow, and made his clean hole in the water with- 
 out splash or sound, to reappear a hundred yards far- 
 ther on ! 
 
 "Sac a papier! quel gaillard que cet Anglais, hein?" 
 
 " A-t-on jamais vu un torse pareil !" 
 
 " Et les bras, done !" 
 
 " Et les jambes, nom d'un tonnerre !" 
 
 " Matin ! J'aimerais mieux etre en colere contre lui 
 qu'il ne soit en colere contre moi !" etc., etc., etc. 
 
 Omne ignotum pro magnifico ! 
 
101 
 
 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 and lie and steal 
 and bear false witness against our neighbor, and break 
 the Sabbath day and take the Lord's name in vain, 
 much deplorable wickedness of another kind would 
 cease to exist for sheer lack of mystery ; and Chris- 
 tianity Avould be relieved of its hardest task in this sin- 
 ful world, and Venus Aphrodite {alias Aselgeia) would 
 
 have to go a-begging along with the tailors and dress- 
 makers and boot-makers, and perhaps our bodies and 
 limbs Avould be as those of the Theseus and Venus of 
 Milo ; who was no Venus, except in good looks ! 
 
102 
 
 At all events, there would be no cunning, cruel de- 
 ceptions, no artful taking in of artless inexperience, 
 no unduly hurried waking -up from Love's young 
 dream, no handing down to posterity of hidden ugli- 
 nesses and weaknesses, and worse ! 
 
 And also many a flower, now born to blush unseen, 
 would be reclaimed from its desert, and suffered to 
 hold its own, and flaunt away with the best in the 
 inner garden of roses ! 
 
 And here let me humbly apologize to the casual 
 reader for the length and possible irrelevancy of this 
 digression, and for its subject. To those who may 
 find matter for sincere disapprobation or even grave 
 offence in a thing that has always seemed to me so 
 simple, so commonplace, as to be hardly worth talk- 
 ing or writing about, I can only plead a sincerity 
 equal 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 for inscrutable purposes 
 of His own. 
 
 Nor, indeed, am I pleading for such a subversive 
 and revolutionary measure as the wholesale abolition 
 of clothes, being tlie chilliest of mortals, and quite un- 
 like Mr. Theseus or Mr. Ilyssus either. 
 
 Sometimes Trilby would bring her little brother to 
 the studio in the Place St. Anatole des Arts, in his 
 " beaux habits de Pdques," his hair well curled and 
 pomatumed, his hands and face Avell washed. 
 
 He was a very engaging little mortal. The Laird 
 would fill his pockets full of Scotch goodies, and paint 
 him as a little Spaniard in "Le Fils du Toreador," a 
 
103 
 
 sweet little Spaniard with blue eyes, and curly locks 
 as light as tow, and a complexion of milk and roses, 
 in singular and piquant contrast to his swarthy pro- 
 genitor. 
 
 Taffy would use him as an Indian club or a dumb- 
 bell, to the child's infinite delight, and swing him on 
 the trapeze, and teach him " la boxe." 
 
 And the sweetness and fun of his shrill, happy, in- 
 fantile laugliter (which was like an echo of Trilby's, 
 onl}'^ an octave higher) so moved and touched and 
 tickled one tliat Taffy had to look quite fierce, so he 
 might hide the strange delight of tenderness that 
 somehow filled his manly bosom at the mere sound 
 of it (lest Little Billee and the Laird should think 
 him goody-goody) ; and the fiercer Taffy looked, the 
 less this small mite was afraid of him. 
 
 Little Billee made a beautiful water-color sketch of 
 him, just as he was, and gave it to Trilby, who gave 
 it to le pere Martin, who gave it to 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 for Trilby, who was immensely fond of 
 him, and very proud. And the happiest day of all 
 was when Trois Angliches took Trilby and Jean- 
 not (for so the mite was called) to spend the Sunday 
 in the woods at Meudon, and breakfast and dine at 
 the garde champetre's. Swings, peep-shows, donkey- 
 rides ; shooting at a mark with cross-bows and little 
 pellets of clay, and smashing little plaster figures and 
 winning macaroons ; losing one's self in the beautiful 
 
104 
 
 forest ; catching newts and tadpoles and young frogs ; 
 making music on mirlitons. Trilby singing "Ben 
 Bolt " into a mirliton was a thing to be remembered, 
 whether one would or no ! 
 
 Trilby on this occasion came out in a new charac- 
 ter, 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 up the inner side), she might have 
 been the daughter of an English dean — until she un- 
 dertook to teach the Laird some favorite cancan steps. 
 And then the Laird himself, it must be admitted, no 
 longer looked like the son of a worthy, God-fearing, 
 Sabbath-keeping Scotch solicitor. 
 
 Tills was after dinner, in the garden, at "la loge 
 du garde champctre." Taffy and Jeannot and Little 
 Billee made the necessary music on their mirlitons, 
 and the dancing soon became general, with plenty 
 also to look on, 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 of that particular ball, and there 
 have been worse balls in much finer company, and 
 far plainer women ! 
 
 Trilby lightly dancing the cancan (there are can- 
 cans and cancans) was a singularly gainly and seduc- 
 tive person — ct vera incessu patuit deal Llere, again, 
 she was funny without being vulgar. And for mere 
 grace (even in the cancan), she was the forerunner of 
 Miss Kate Yaughan ; and, for sheer fun, the precursor 
 of Miss Nelly Farren ! 
 
 And the Laird, trying to dance after her ("dongsong 
 
105 
 
 le konkong," as he called it), was too funny for words ; 
 and if genuine popular success is a true test of humor, 
 no greater humorist ever danced ix^pas seul. 
 
 ' voiLA l'espayce ue hom ker jer swee !' " 
 
 What Englishmen could do in France during the 
 fifties, and yet manage to preserve their self-respect, 
 and even the respect of their respectable French 
 friends ! 
 
 " Voila l'espayce de hom ker jer swee !" said the 
 Laird, every time he bowed in acknowledgment of the 
 
106 
 
 applause that greeted his performance of various solo 
 steps of his own — Scotch reels and sword-dances that 
 come in admirably. . . . 
 
 Then, one fine day, the Laird fell ill, and the doctor 
 had to be sent for, and he ordered a nurse. But Trilby 
 would hear of no nurses, not even a Sister of Charity ! 
 She did all the nursing herself, and never slept a wink 
 for three successive 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, and whispered : " Quel bonheur ! il est 
 sauve, M. le Docteur ; ecoutez ! il dit ses prieres en 
 Anglais, ce brave garcon !" 
 
 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 of heart-felt fervor, 
 intoning, solemnly : 
 
 " 'Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron. 
 Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace^- 
 All Ihese you eat at Terre's Tavern 
 In that one dish of bouillabaisse !' " 
 
 " Ah ! mais c'est tres bien de sa part, ce brave jeune 
 homme ! rendre graces au ciel comme cela, quand le 
 danger est passe! tres bien, tres bien !" 
 
 Sceptic and Voltairian as he was, and not the friend 
 of prayer, the good doctor was touched, for he was 
 old, and therefore kind and tolerant, and made allow- 
 ances. 
 
 And afterwards he said such sweet things to Trilby 
 
m 
 
 about it all, and about her admirable care of his 
 patient, that she positively wept with delight — like 
 sweet Alice with hair so brown, whenever Ben Bolt 
 gave her a smile. 
 
 All this sounds very goody-goody, but it's true. 
 
 So it will be easily understood ho\v the trois An- 
 gliches came in time to feel for Trilb}'^ quite a peculiar 
 regard, and looked forward with sorrowful forebod- 
 ings to the day when this singular and pleasant little 
 quartet would have to be broken up, each of them to 
 spread his wings and fly away on his own account, 
 and poor Trilby to be left behind all by herself. They 
 would even frame little plans whereby she might better 
 herself in life, and avoid the many snares and pitfalls 
 that would beset her lonely path in the quartier latin 
 when they were gone. 
 
 Trilby never thought of such things as these ; she 
 took short views of life, and troubled herself about no 
 morrows. 
 
 There was, however, one jarring figure in her little 
 fool's paradise, a baleful and most ominous figure that 
 constantly crossed her path, and came between her 
 and the sun, and threw its shadow over her, and that 
 was 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 when he came with 
 Gecko and they made music together. But it soon 
 became apparent that they did not come there to play 
 to the three Angliches ; it was to see Trilby, whom 
 they both had taken it into their heads to adore, each 
 in a different fashion : 
 
108 
 
 Gecko, with a humble, doglike worship that ex- 
 pressed itself in mute, pathetic deference and looks of 
 lowly self - depreciation, of apology for his own un- 
 worthy existence, as though the only requital he would 
 ever dare to dream of were a word of decent polite- 
 ness, a glance of tolerance or good-will— a mere bone 
 to a dog. 
 
 Svengali was a bolder wooer. When he cringed, it 
 was with a mock humility full of sardonic threats ; 
 when he was playful, it was with a terrible playful- 
 ness, like that of a cat with a mouse — a weird ungain- 
 ly cat, and most unclean ; a sticky, haunting, long, 
 lean, uncanny, black spider-cat, if there is such an ani- 
 mal outside a bad dream. 
 
 It was a great grievance to him that she had suf- 
 fered from no more pains in her eyes, Slie had ; but 
 preferred to endure them rather than seek relief from 
 him. 
 
 So he would plaj'f ully try to mesmerize her with his 
 glance, and sidle up nearer and nearer to her, making 
 passes and counter-passes, with stern command in his 
 eyes, till she would shake and shiver and almost sicken 
 with 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 friend- 
 ly " Now then, old fellow, none of that !" and a jolly 
 slap on the back, which would make Svengali cough 
 for an hour, and paralyze his mesmeric powers for a 
 week. 
 
 Svengali had a stroke of good-fortune. He played 
 at three grand concerts with Gecko, and had a well- 
 
109 
 
 deserved success. He even gave a concert of his own, 
 which made a furor, and blossomed out into beautiful 
 and costly clothes of quite original color and shape 
 and pattern, so that people would turn round and stare 
 at him in the street — a thing he loved. He felt his 
 fortune was secure, and ran into debt with tailors, 
 hatters, shoemakers, jewellers, but paid none of his old 
 debts to his friends. His pockets were always full of 
 printed slips — things that had been written about him 
 in the papers — and he would read them aloud to every- 
 body he knew, especially to Trilby, as she sat darning 
 socks on the model-throne while the fencing and box- 
 ing were in train. And he would lay his fame and 
 his fortune at her feet, on condition that she should 
 share her life with him. 
 
 " Ach, himmel, Drilpy !" he would say, " you don't 
 know what it is to be a great pianist like me — hein ! 
 What is your Little Billee, with his stinking oil-blad- 
 ders, sitting mum in his corner, his mahlstick and his 
 palette in one hand, and his twiddling little footle 
 pig's-hair brush in the other! What noise does he 
 make ? When his little fool of a picture is finished he 
 will send it to London, and they will hang it on a wall 
 with a lot of others, all in a line, like recruits called 
 out for inspection, and the yawning public will walk 
 by in procession and inspect, and say ' damn !' S vengali 
 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 Englanderinnen will see 
 and hear and go mad with love for him — Prinzessen, 
 Coratessen, Serene English Altessen. They will soon 
 lose their Serenity and their Highness when they 
 
110 
 
 hear Svengali ! They will invite him to their palaces, 
 and pay him a thousand francs 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 
 gin and kiichen and marrons glaces, and lean over him 
 and fan him — for he is tired after playing them for a 
 thousand francs of Chopin ! Ha, ha ! I know all about 
 it — hein ? 
 
 " And he will not look at them, even ! He will look 
 inward, at his own dream — 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 hus- 
 bands will be mad with jealousy, and long to box him, 
 but they will be afraid. Ach ! those beautiful An- 
 glaises ! they will think it an honor to mend his shirts, 
 to sew buttons on his pantaloons ; to darn his socks, 
 as you are doing now for that sacred imbecile of a 
 Scotchman who is always trying to paint toreadors, or 
 that sweating, pig-headed bullock of an Englander who 
 is always trying to get himself dirty and then to get 
 himself clean again ! — 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 on the back with his big bear's 
 paw ! He finds that droll, the bullock ! . . . 
 
 "Look at your Frenchmen there ^ your damned 
 conceited verfluchte pig-dogs of Frenchmen — Durien, 
 Barizel, Bouchardy ! What can a Frenchman talk of, 
 hein? Only himself, and run down everybody else! 
 His vanity makes me sick! He always thinks the 
 
TIT FOR TAT 
 
112 
 
 world is talking about him^ the fool ! He forgets that 
 there's a fellow called Smngali for the world to talk 
 about ! I tell you, Drilpy, it is about me the world is 
 talking — me and nobody 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 people wrote of hivfi like that ? 
 
 " But you are not listening, sapperment ! great big 
 she -fool that you are — sheep's-head! Dummkopf ! 
 Donnerwetter ! you are looking at the chimney-pots 
 when Svengali is talking ! Look a little lower down 
 between the houses, on the other side of the river! 
 There is a little ugly gray building there, and inside 
 are eight slanting slabs of brass, all of a row, like 
 beds in a school dormitory, and one fine day you shall 
 lie asleep on one of those slabs — you, Drilpy, who 
 would not listen to Svengali, and therefore lost him ! 
 . . , And over the middle of you will be a little 
 leather apron, and over your head a little brass tap, 
 and all day long and all night the cold water shall 
 trickle, trickle, trickle all the way down your beauti- 
 ful white body to your beautiful white feet till they 
 turn green, and your poor, damp, draggled^ muddy rags 
 will hang above you from the ceiling for your friends 
 to know you by ; drip, drip, drip ! But you will have 
 no friends. . . . 
 
 " And people of all sorts, strangers, will stare at you 
 through the big plate -glass windows — ^Englanders, 
 chiffonniers, painters and sculptors, workmen, piou- 
 pious, old hags of washer - women — and say, ' Ah ! 
 what a beautiful woman was that ! Look at her 1 She 
 ought to be rolling in her carriage and pair !' And 
 
113 
 
 just then wlio should come b}^, rolling in his carriage 
 and pair, smothered in furs, and smoking a big cigar 
 of the Havana, but Svengali, who will jump out, and 
 push the canaille aside, and say, " Ha ! ha ! that is la 
 grande Drilpy, who would not listen to Svengali, but 
 looked at the chimney-pots when he told her of his 
 manly love, 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 stop Svengali'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 : " Dear Drilpy, come and 
 sing ' Pen Polt ' ! I am thirsting for those so beauti- 
 ful chest notes ! Come !" 
 
 Poor Trilby needed little pressing when she was 
 asked to sing, and would go through her lamentable 
 performance, to the great discomfort of Little Billee. 
 It lost nothing of its grotesqueness from Svengali's 
 accompaniment, which was a triumph of cacophony, 
 and he would encourage her — " Tres pien, tres piftn, 9a 
 y est !" 
 
 When it was over, Svengali would test her ear, as 
 he called it, and strike the C in the middle and then 
 the F just above, and ask which was the highest; and 
 she would declare they were both exactly the same. 
 It was only when he struck a note in the bass and 
 another in the treble that she could perceive any dif- 
 
 8 
 
114 
 
 ference, and said that the first sounded like pere 
 Martin blowing up his wife, and the second like her 
 little godson trying to make the peace between them. 
 
 She was quite tone-deaf, and didn't know it; and 
 he would pay her extravagant 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 creature howled and became quite hys- 
 terical. 
 
 Then Svengali would vent his love of teasing on 
 Little Billee, and pin his arms behind his back and 
 swing him round, saying: "Hiramel! what's this for 
 an arm? It's like a gh'l'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 heel and kick the German's shins; and 
 just as the German was going to retaliate, big Taffy 
 would pin his arms and make him sing another song, 
 more discordant than Trilby's — for he didn't dream 
 of kicking Taffy ; of that you may be sure ! 
 
 Sucli was Svengali — only to be endured for the 
 sake of his music — always ready to vex, frighten, 
 bully, or torment anybody or anything smaller and 
 weaker than himself — from a woman or a child to a 
 mouse or a fly. 
 
Ipart Q:b(rD 
 
 " Par de^a, ne dela la mer 
 Ne S9ay dame ni daraoiselle 
 Qui soit en tous biens parfaits telle— 
 C'est un songe que d'y penser : 
 Dieu! qu'il fait bon la regarder!" 
 
 One lovely Monday morning in late September, at 
 about eleven or so, Taffy and the Laird sat in the 
 studio — each opposite his picture, smoking, nursing his 
 knee, and saying nothing. The heaviness of Monday 
 weighed on their spirits more than usual, for the three 
 friends had returned late on the previous night from a 
 week spent at Barbizon and in the forest of Fontaine- 
 bleau — a heavenly week among the painters: Eous- 
 seau, Millet, Corot, Daubigny, let us suppose, and 
 others less known to fame this day. Little Billee, 
 especially, had been fascinated by all this artistic 
 life in blouses and sabots and immense straw hats and 
 panamas, and had sworn to himself and to his friends 
 that he would some day live and die there — pa>inting 
 the forest as it is, and peopling it with beautiful peo- 
 ple out of his own fancy — leading a healthy out-door 
 life of simple wants and lofty aspirations. 
 
 At length Taffy said : " Bother work this morning! 
 I feel much more like a stroll in the Luxerabouro- Gar- 
 dens and lunch at the Cafe de I'Odeon, where the ome- 
 lets are good and the wine isn't blue." 
 
THE IIAPPV LIFE 
 
 "The very thing I 
 was thinking of my- 
 self," said the Laird. 
 
 So Taffy shpped on 
 his old shooting-jacket 
 and his old Harrow 
 cricket cap, with the 
 peak turned the wrong 
 way, and the Laird put 
 on an old great-coat of 
 Taffy's that reached to 
 his heels, and a battered straw hat they had found in 
 the studio when they took it ; and both sallied forth 
 into the mellow sunshine on the way to Carrel's. For 
 they meant to seduce Little Billee from his work, that 
 he might share in their laziness, greediness, and gen- 
 eral demoralization. 
 
 And ^vlioni should they meet coming down the nar- 
 row turreted old Rue Vieille des Mauvais Ladres but 
 Little Billee himself, with an air of general demoraliza- 
 tion so tragic that they were quite alarmed. He had 
 his ])aint-box and field-easel in one hand and his little 
 valise in the other. He was pale, his hat on the back 
 
117 
 
 of his head, his hair staring all at sixes and sevens, 
 like a sick Scotch terrier's. 
 
 " Good Lord ! what's the matter?" said Taify. 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! oh ! she's sitting at Carrel's !" 
 
 " "Who's sitting at Carrel's V 
 
 " Trilby ! sitting to all those ruflBans ! There she 
 was, just as I opened the door ; I saw her, I tell you ! 
 The sight of her was like a blow between the eyes, 
 and I bolted ! I shall never go back to that beastly 
 hole again ! I'm off to Barbizon, to paint the forest ; , 
 I was coming round to tell you. Good-bye ! . . ." 
 
 " Stop a minute — are you mad?" said Taify, collar- 
 ing him. 
 
 " Let me go, Taffy — let me go, damn it ! I'll com.e 
 back in a week — but I'm going now ! Let me go ; do 
 you hear?" 
 
 " But look here — I'll go with you." 
 
 " No ; I want to be alone — quite alone. Let me go, 
 I tell you !" 
 
 " I sha'n't let you go unless you swear to me, on 
 your honor, that you'll write directly you get there, 
 and every day till you come back. Swear!" 
 
 " All right ; I swear — honor bright ! Now there ! 
 Good-bye — good-bye; back on Sunday — good-bye!" 
 And he was off. 
 
 "Now, what the devil does all that mean?" asked 
 Taffy, much perturbed. 
 
 " I suppose he's shocked at seeing Trilby in that 
 guise, or disguise, or unguise, sitting at Carrel's — he's 
 such an odd little chap. And I must say, I'm sur- 
 prised at Trilby. It's a bad thing for her when we're 
 away. What could have induced her ? She never sat 
 
118 
 
 in a studio of that kind before. I thought she only 
 sat to Durien and old Carrel." 
 
 They walked for a while in silence. 
 
 " Do you know, I've got a horrid idea that the little 
 fool's in love with her !" 
 
 " I've long had a horrid idea that she's in love with 
 him.'''' 
 
 " That would be a very stupid business," said 
 Taffy. 
 
 They walked on, brooding over those two horrid 
 ideas, and the more they brooded, considered, and re- 
 membered, the more convinced they became that both 
 were right. 
 
 " Here's a pretty kettle of fisli !" said the Laird — 
 "and talking of fish, let's go and lunch." 
 
 And so demoralized were the}'- that Taffy ate three 
 omelets without thinking, and the Laird drank two half- 
 bottles of wine, and Taffy three, and they walked 
 about the whole of that afternoon for fear Trilby 
 should come to the studio — and were very unhappy. 
 
 This is how Trilby came to sit at Carrel's studio : 
 Carrel had suddenly taken it into his head that he 
 would spend a week there, and paint a figure among 
 his pupils, that they might see and paint with — and if 
 possible like — him. And he had asked Trilby as a 
 great favor to be the model, and Trilby was so de- 
 voted to the great Carrel that she readily consented. 
 So that Monday morning found her there, and Carrel 
 posed her as Ingres's famous figure in his picture 
 called " La Source," holding a stone pitcher on her 
 shoulder. 
 
' LET ME GO, TAFFY . . . 
 
120 
 
 And the work began in religious silence. Then in 
 live minutes or so Little Billee came bursting in, and 
 as soon as he caught sight of her he stopped and 
 stood as one petritied, his shoulders up, his eyes star- 
 ing. Then lifting his arms, he turned and fled. 
 
 "Qu'est ce qu'il a done, ce Litrebili?" exclaimed one 
 or two students (for they had turned his English nick- 
 name into French). 
 
 " Perhaps he's forgotten something," said another. 
 "Perhaps he's forgotten to brush his teeth and part 
 his hair!" 
 
 " Perhaps he's forgotten to say his prayers !" said 
 Barizel. 
 
 " He'll come back, I hope !" exclaimed the master. 
 
 And the incident gave rise to no further com- 
 ment. 
 
 But Trilby was much disquieted, and fell to won- 
 dering what on earth was the matter. 
 
 At first she wondered in French : French of the 
 quart ier latin. She had not seen Little Billee for a 
 week, and wondered if he were ill. She had looked 
 forward so much to his painting her — painting her 
 beautifully — and hoped he would soon come back, and 
 lose no time. 
 
 Then she began to wonder in English — nice clean 
 English of the studio in the Place St. Anatole des 
 Arts — her father's English — and suddenl}'^ a quick 
 thought pierced her through and through, and made 
 the flesh tingle on her insteps and the backs of her 
 hands, and bathed her brow and temples with sweat. 
 
 She had good eyes, and Little Billee had a singular- 
 ly expressive face. 
 
121 
 
 Could it possibly be that he was shocked at seeing 
 her sitting there ? 
 
 She knew that he was peculiar in many ways. She 
 remembered that neither he nor Taffy nor the Laird 
 had ever asked her to sit for the figure, though she 
 would have been only 
 too delighted to do so 
 for them. She also re- 
 membered how Little 
 Billee had alwa3'^s been 
 silent whenever she al- 
 luded to her posing 
 for the "altogether," 
 as she called it, and 
 had sometimes looked 
 pained and alwaj's very 
 grave. 
 
 She turned alternate- 
 ly pale and red, pale 
 and red all over, again 
 and again, as the 
 thought grew up in 
 her — and soon the 
 growing thought be- 
 came a torment. 
 
 This new-born feel- 
 ino" of shame was un- " ' qu'est ce qu'il a donc, ce litrebili ?' " 
 endurable — its birth a 
 
 travail that racked and rent every fibre of her moral 
 being, and she suffered agonies beyond anything she 
 had ever felt in her life. 
 
 " What is the matter with you, my child % Are you 
 
122 
 
 ill 'r asked Carrel, who, like every one else, was very 
 fond of her, and to whom she had sat as a child (" I'En- 
 fance de Psyche," now in the Luxembourg Gallery, was 
 painted from her). 
 
 She shook her head, and the work went on. 
 
 Presently she dropped her pitcher, that broke into 
 bits ; and putting her two hands to her face she burst 
 into tears and sobs — and there, to the amazement of 
 everybody, she stood crying like a big baby — " La 
 source aux larmes?" 
 
 " What is the matter, my poor dear child ?" said Car- 
 rel, jumping up and helping her off the throne. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know — I don't know — Pm ill — wery ill 
 — let me go home !" 
 
 And with kind solicitude and despatch they helped 
 her on with her clothes, and Carrel sent for a cab and 
 took her home. 
 
 And on the way she dropped her head on his shoul- 
 der, and wept, and told him all about it as well as she 
 could, and Monsieur Carrel had tears in his eyes too, 
 and wished to Heaven he had never induced her to sit 
 for the figure, either then or at any other time. And 
 pondering deeply and sorrowfully on such terrible re- 
 sponsibility (he had grown-up daughters of his own), he 
 went back to the studio; and in an hour's time they got 
 another model and another pitcher, and went to work 
 again. 
 
 And Trilby, as she lay disconsolate on her bed all 
 that day and all the next, and all the next again, 
 thought of her past life with agonies of shame and 
 remorse that made the pain in her eyes seem as a 
 
123 
 
 light and welcome relief. For it came, and tortured 
 worse and lasted longer than it had ever done before. 
 But she soon found, to her miserable bewilderment, 
 that mind-aches are the worst of all. 
 
 Then she decided that she must write to one of the 
 trois Angliches, and chose the Laird. 
 
 She was more familiar with him than with the other 
 two: it was impossible not to be familiar with the 
 Laird if he liked one, as he was so easy-going and 
 demonstrative, for all that he was such a canny 
 Scot ! Then she had nursed him through his illness ; 
 she had often hugged and kissed him before the 
 whole studio full of people — and even when alone 
 with him it had always seemed quite natural for her 
 to do so. It was like a child caressing a favorite 
 young uncle or elder brother. And though the good 
 Laird was the least susceptible of mortals, he would 
 often find these innocent blandishments a somewhat 
 trying ordeal! She had never taken such a liberty 
 with Taffy ; and as for Little Billee, she would sooner 
 have died ! 
 
 So she wrote to the Laird. I give her letter with- 
 out the spelling, which was often faulty, although her 
 nightly readings had much improved it : 
 
 " My deak Feiend, — I am very unhappy. I was sit- 
 ting at Carrel's, in the Rue des Potirons, and Little Bil- 
 lee came in, and was so shocked and disgusted that he 
 ran away and never came back. 
 
 " I saw it all in his face. 
 
 "I sat there because M. Carrel asked me to. He 
 has always been very kind to me — M. Carrel — ever 
 
134 
 
 since I was a child ; and I would do anything to 
 please him, but never that again. 
 
 " He was there too. 
 
 " I never thought anything about sitting before. I 
 sat first as a child to M. Carrel. Mamma made me, 
 and made me promise not to tell papa, and so I didn't. 
 It soon seemed as natural to sit for people as to run 
 errands for them, or wash and mend their clothes. 
 Papa wouldn't have liked my doing that either, though 
 we wanted the money badly. And so he never knew. 
 
 " I have sat for the altogether to several other people 
 besides — M. Gerorae, Durien, the two Hennequins, and 
 i^mile Baratier ; and for the head and hands to lots of 
 people, and for the feet only to Charles Faure, Andi 6 
 Besson, Mathieu Dumoulin, and Collinet. Nobody 
 else. 
 
 " It seemed as natural for me to sit as for a man. 
 Now I see the awful difference. 
 
 " And I have done dreadful things besides, as you 
 must know — as all the quartier knows. Baratier and 
 Besson ; but not Durien, though people think so. No- 
 body else, I swear — except old Monsieur Penque at the 
 beginning, who was mamma's friend. 
 
 " It makes me almost die of shame and miser}^ to 
 think of it ; for that's not like sitting. I knew how 
 wrong it was all along — and there's no excuse for me, 
 none. Though lots of people do as bad, and nobody 
 in the quartier seems to think any the worse of them. 
 
 " If you and Taffy and Little Billee cut me, I really 
 think I shall go mad and die. Without your friend- 
 ship I shouldn't care to live a bit. Dear Sandy, I love 
 your little finger better than any man or woman I 
 
126 
 
 ever met ; and Taffy's and Little Billee's little fingers 
 too. 
 
 "What shall I do? I daren't go out for fear of 
 meeting one of you. Will you come and see me ? 
 
 "I am never going to sit again, not even for the 
 face and hands. I am going back to be a llancMs- 
 seuse de Jin with my old friend Angele Boisse, v/ho is 
 getting on very well indeed, in the Rue des Cloitres 
 Ste. Petronille. 
 
 " You will come and see me, won't you? I shall be 
 in all day till you do. Or else I will meet you some- 
 where, if you will tell me where and when; or else 1 
 will go and see you in the studio, if you are sure to 
 be alone. Please don't keep me waiting long for an 
 answer. 
 
 " You don't know what I'm suffering. 
 
 " Your ever-loving, faithful friend, 
 
 "Tkilby O'Fekeall." 
 
 She sent this letter by hand, and the Laird came in 
 less than ten minutes after she had sent it ; and she 
 hugged and kissed and cried over him so that he was 
 almost ready to cr}'- himself ; but he burst out laugh- 
 ing instead — which was better and more in his line, 
 and very much morfe comforting — and talked to her so 
 nicely and kindly and naturally that by the time he 
 left her humble attic in the Rue des Pousse-Cailloux 
 her very aspect, which had quite shocked him when 
 he first saw her, had almost become what it usually 
 was. 
 
 The little room under the leads, with its sloping 
 roof and mansard window, was as scrupulously neat 
 
127 
 
 and clean as if its tenant had been a holy sister who 
 taught the noble daughters of France at some Convent 
 of the Sacred Heart. There were nasturtiums and 
 mignonette on the outer window-sill, and convolvulus 
 was trained to climb round the window. 
 
 As she sat by his side on the narrow white bed, 
 clasping and stroking his painty, turpentiny hand, and 
 kissing it every five minutes, he talked to her like a 
 father — as he told Taffy afterwards— and scolded her 
 for having been so silly as not to send for him directly, 
 or come to the studio. He said how glad he was, how 
 glad they would all be, that she was going to give up 
 sitting for the figure — not, of course, that there was 
 any real harm in it, but it was better not — and espe- 
 cially how happy it would make them to feel she in- 
 tended to live straight for the future. Little Billee 
 was to remain at Barbizon for a little while ; but she 
 must promise to come and dine with Taffy and himself 
 that very day, and cook the dinner; and when he 
 went back to his picture, " Les Noces du Toreador " — 
 saying to her as he left, " a ce soir done, mille sacres 
 tonnerres de nong de Dew !" — he left the happiest 
 woman in the whole Latin quarter behind him : she 
 had confessed and been forgiven. 
 
 And w4th shame and repentance and confession and 
 forgiveness had come a strange new feeling — that of a 
 dawning self-respect. 
 
 Hitherto, for Trilby, self-respect had meant little 
 more than the mere cleanliness of her body, in which 
 she had always revelled ; alas ! it was one of the con- 
 ditions of her humble calling. It now meant another 
 kind of cleanliness, and she would luxuriate in it for 
 
128 
 
 evermore ; and the dreadful past — never to be forgot- 
 ten by her — should be so lived down as in time, per- 
 haps, to be forgotten by others. 
 
 The dinner that evening was a memorable one for 
 Trilby. After she had washed up the knives and forks 
 and plates and dishes, and put them by, she sat and 
 sewed. She wouldn't even smoke her cigarette, it re- 
 minded her so of things and scenes she now hated. 
 No more cigarettes for Trilby O'Ferrall. 
 
 They all talked of Little Billee. She heard about 
 the way he had been brought up, about his mother 
 and sister, the people he had always lived among. She 
 also heard (and her heart alternately rose and sank as 
 she listened) what his future was likely to be, and how 
 rare his genius was, and how great — if his friends were 
 to be trusted. Fame and fortune would soon be his — 
 such fame and fortune as fell to the lot of very few — 
 unless anything should happen to spoil his promise 
 and mar his prospects in life, and ruin a splendid 
 career; and the rising of the heart was all for him, 
 the sinking for herself. How could she ever hope 
 to be even the friend of such a man? Might she 
 ever hope to be his servant — his faithful, humble 
 servant ? 
 
 Little Billee spent a month at Barbizon, and when 
 he came back it was with such a brown face that his 
 friends hardly knew him ; and he brought with him 
 such studies as made his friends "sit up." 
 
 The crushing sense of their own hopeless inferiority 
 was lost in wonder at his work, in love and enthusiasm 
 for the workman. 
 
CONFESSION 
 
130 
 
 Their Little Billee, so young and tender, so weak of 
 bod}'', so strong of purpose, so warm of heart, so light 
 of hand, so keen and quick and piercing of brain and 
 eye, was their master, to be stuck on a pedestal and 
 looked up to and bowed down to, to be watched and 
 warded and worshipped for evermore. 
 
 "When Trilby came in from her work at six, and he 
 shook hands with her and said " Hullo, Trilby !" her 
 face turned pale to the lips, her under-lip quivered, and 
 she gazed down at him (for she was among the tallest 
 of her sex) with such a moist, hungry, wide-eyed look 
 of humble craving adoration that the Laird felt his 
 worst fears were realized, and the look Little Billee 
 sent up in return filled the manly bosom of Taffy with 
 an equal apprehension. 
 
 Then they all four went and dined together at le 
 pure Trin's, and Trilby went back to her hlanchisserie 
 de fin. 
 
 Next day Little Billee took his work to show Carrel, 
 and Carrel invited him to come and finish his picture 
 '' The Pitcher Goes to the Well " at his own private 
 studio — an unheard-of favor, which the boy accepted 
 with a thrill of proud gratitude and affectionate rev- 
 erence. 
 
 So little was seen for some time of Little Billee at 
 the studio in the Place St. Anatole des Arts, and little 
 of Trilby ; a hlanchissetise defin has not many minutes 
 to spare from her irons. But they often met at din- 
 ner. And on Sunday mornings Trilb}'^ came to repair 
 the Laird's linen and darn his socks and look after his 
 little comforts, as usual, and spend a happy day. And 
 on Sunday afternoons the studio would be as lively as 
 
131 
 
 ever, with the fencing and boxing, the piano-playing 
 and fiddhng — all as it used to be. 
 
 And week by week the friends noticed a gradual 
 and subtle change in Trilby. She was no longer 
 slangy in French, unless it were now and then by a 
 slip of the tongue, no longer so facetious and droll, 
 and yet she seemed even happier than she had ever 
 seemed before. 
 
 Also, she grew thinner, especially in the face, where 
 the bones of her cheeks and jaw began to show them- 
 selves, and these bones were constructed on such riffht 
 principles (as were those of her brow and chin and the 
 bridge of her nose) that the improvement was aston- 
 ishing, almost inexplicable. 
 
 Also, she lost her freckles as the summer waned and 
 she herself went less into the open air. And she let 
 her hair grow, and made of it a small knot at the back 
 of her head, and showed her little flat ears, which 
 were charming, and just in the right place, very far 
 back and rather high; Little Billee could not have 
 placed them better himself. Also, her mouth, always 
 too large, took on a firmer and sweeter outline, and 
 her big British teeth were so white and even that even 
 Frenchmen forgave them their British bigness. And 
 a new soft brightness came into her eyes that no one 
 had ever seen there before. They were stars, just 
 twin gray stars — or rather planets just thrown off by 
 some new sun, for the steady mellow light they gave 
 out was not entirely their own. 
 
 Favorite types of beauty change with each succeed- 
 ing generation. These were the days of Buckner's 
 aristocratic Album beauties, with lofty foreheads, oval 
 
133 
 
 faces, little aquiline noses, heart-shaped little mouths, 
 soft dimpled chins, drooping shoulders, and long side 
 ringlets that fell over them — the Lady Arabellas and 
 the Lady Clementinas, Musidoras and Medoras! A 
 type that will perhaps come back to us some day. 
 
 May the present scribe be dead ! 
 
 Trilby's type would be infinitely more admired now 
 than in the fifties. Her photograph would be in the 
 shop-windows. Sir Edward Burne-Jones — if I may 
 make so bold as to say so — would perhaps have marked 
 her for his own, in spite of her almost too exuberant 
 joyousness and irrepressible vitality. Eossetti might 
 have evolved another new formula from her; Sir 
 John Millais another old one of the kind that is al- 
 ways new and never sates nor palls — like Clytie, let 
 us say — ever old and ever new as love itself ! 
 
 Trilby's type was in singular contrast to the type 
 Gavarni had made so popular in the Latin quarter 
 at the period we are writing of, so that those who 
 fell so readily under her charm were rather apt to 
 wonder why. Moreover, she was thought much too 
 tall for her sex, and her day, and her station in life, 
 and especially for the country she lived in. She 
 hardly looked up to a bold gendarme! and a bold 
 gendarme was nearly as tall as a " dragon de la garde," 
 who was nearly as tall as an average English police- 
 man. Not that she was a giantess, by any means. 
 She was about as tall as Miss Ellen Terry — and that 
 is a charming height, / think. 
 
 One day Taffy remarked to the Laird : " Hang it ! 
 I'm blest if Trilby isn't the handsomest woman I 
 know ! She looks like a grande dame masquerading 
 
134 
 
 as a grisette — almost like a joyful saint at times. 
 She's lovely ! By Jove ! I couldn't stand her hugging 
 me as she does you ! There'd be a tragedy — say the 
 slaughter of Little Billee." 
 
 " Ah ! Taffy, my boy," rejoined the Laird, " when 
 those long sisterly arms are round my neck it isn't me 
 she's hugging." 
 
 " And then," said Taffy, " what a trump she is ! 
 Why, she's as upright and straight and honorable as 
 a man! And what she says to one about one's self is 
 always so pleasant to hear ! That's Irish, I suppose. 
 And, what's more, it's always true." 
 
 " Ah, that's Scotch !" said the Laird, and tried to 
 wink at Little Billee, but Little Billee wasn't there. 
 
 Even Svengali perceived the strange metamorpho- 
 sis. " Ach, Drilpy," he would say, on a Sunday after- 
 noon, " how beautiful you are ! It drives me mad ! I 
 adore you. I like you thinner ; you have such beau- 
 tiful bones ! Why do you not answer my letters ? 
 What ! you do not read them? You hum them? And 
 yet I — Donnerwetter ! I forgot! The grisettes of 
 the quartier latin have not learned how to read or 
 write ; they have only learned how to dance the can- 
 can with the dirty little pig -dog monkeys they call 
 men. Sacrement ! We will teach the little pig - dog 
 monkeys to dance something else some day, w^e Ger- 
 mans. We will make music for them to dance to! 
 Boum ! boum ! Better than the waiter at the Cafe de 
 la Rotonde, hein? And the grisettes of the quartier 
 latin shall pour us out your little white wine — 'fotre 
 betit fin plane,' as your pig -dog monkey of a poet 
 says, your rotten verfluchter De Musset, ' who has got 
 
135 
 
 such a splendid future behind him' ! Bah ! What do 
 you know of Monsieur Alfred de Musset? We have 
 got a poet too, my Drilpy. His name is Ileinrich 
 Heine. If he's still alive, he lives in Paris, in a little 
 street off the Champs Elysees. He lies in bed all day 
 long, and only sees out 
 of one eye, like the 
 Countess Hahn - Hahn, 
 ha! ha! He adores 
 P'rench grisettes. He 
 married one. Her name 
 is Mathilde, and she has 
 got siissen fiissen, like 
 you. He would adore 
 you too, for your beau- 
 tiful bones ; he would 
 like to count them one 
 by one, for he is very 
 playful, like me. And, 
 ach ! what a beautiful 
 skeleton you will make ! 
 
 And very soon, too, because 3^ou do not smile on your 
 madly-loving Svengali. You burn his letters without 
 reading them ! You shall have a nice little mahogany 
 glass case all to yourself in the museum of the Ecole de 
 Medecine, and Svengali shall come in his new fur-lined 
 coat, smoking his big cigar of the Havana, and push 
 the dirty carabins out of the way, and look through 
 the holes of your eyes into your stupid empty skull, 
 and up the nostrils of your high, bony sounding-board 
 of a nose without either a tip or a lip to it, and into the 
 roof of your big mouth, with your thirty-two big Eng. 
 
 "twin gray stars" 
 
136 
 
 lish teeth, and between your big ribs into your big 
 chest, where the big leather lungs used to be, and say, 
 ' Ach ! what a pity she had no more music in her than 
 a big tomcat!' And then he will look all down your 
 bones to your poor crumbling feet, and say, ' Ach ! 
 what a fool she was not to answer Svengali's letters !' 
 and the dirty carabins shall — " 
 
 " Shut up, you sacred fool, or I'll precious soon spoil 
 ijour skeleton for you." 
 
 Thus the short-tempered Taffj'', who had been lis- 
 tening. 
 
 Then Svengali, scowling, would play Chopin's fu- 
 neral march more divinely than ever ; and where the 
 pretty, soft part comes in, he would whisper to Trilby, 
 " That is Svengali coming to look at you in your little 
 mahogany glass case !" 
 
 And here let me say that these vicious imaginations 
 of Svengali's, which look so tame in English print, 
 sounded much more ghastly in French, pronounced 
 with a Hebrew - German accent, and uttered in his 
 hoarse, rasping, nasal, throaty rook's caw, his big yel- 
 low teeth baring themselves in a mongrel canine snarl, 
 his heavy upper eyelids drooping over his insolent 
 black eyes. 
 
 Besides which, as he played the lovely melody he 
 would go through a ghoulish pantomime, as though he 
 were taking stock of the diiferent bones in her skeleton 
 with greedy but discriminating approval. And when 
 he came down to the feet, he was almost droll in the 
 intensity of his terrible realism. But Trilby did not 
 appreciate this exquisite fooling, and felt cold all over. 
 
 He seemed to her a dread, powerful demon, who, 
 
137 
 
 but for Taffy (who alone could hold him in check), 
 oppressed and weighed on her like an incubus — and 
 she dreamed of him oftener than she dreamed of 
 Taffy, the Laird, or even Little Billee ! 
 
 Thus pleasantly and smoothly, and without much 
 change or adventure, things went on till Christmas- 
 time. 
 
 Little Billee seldom spoke of Trilby, or Trilby of 
 him. Work went on every morning at the studio in 
 the Place St. Anatole des Arts, and pictures were be- 
 gun and finished — little pictures that didn't take long 
 to paint — the Laird's Spanish bull-fighting scenes, in 
 which the bull never appeared, and which he sent to 
 his native Dundee and sold there ; Taffy's tragic little 
 dramas of life in 
 the slums of Paris 
 — starvings, drown- 
 ings — suicides by 
 charcoal and poison 
 — which he sent ev- 
 erywhere, but did 
 not sell. 
 
 Little Billee was 
 painting all this time 
 at Carrel's studio — 
 his private one — and 
 seemed preoccupied 
 and happy when 
 they all met at meal- 
 time, and less talka- 
 tive even than usual. 
 
 AN INCUBUS 
 
138 
 
 He had always been the least talkative of the three ; 
 more prone to listen, and no doubt to think the more. 
 
 In the afternoon people came and went as usual, 
 and boxed and fenced and did gymnastic feats, and 
 felt Taffy's biceps, which by this time equalled Mr. 
 Sandow's ! 
 
 Some of these people were very pleasant and re- 
 markable, and have become famous since then in Eng- 
 land, France, America — or have died, or married, and 
 come to grief or glory in other ways. It is the Ballad 
 of the Bouillabaisse all over again ! 
 
 It might be worth while my trying to sketch some 
 of the more noteworthy, now that my story is slowing 
 for a wiiile — like a French train when the engine- 
 driver sees a long carved tunnel in front of him, as I 
 do — and no light at the other end ! 
 
 My humble attempts at characterization might be 
 useful as "memoires pour servir" to future biogra- 
 phers. Besides, there are other reasons, as the reader 
 will soon discover. 
 
 There was Durien, for instance — Trilby's especial 
 French adorer, " pour le bon motif !" a son of the peo- 
 ple, a splendid sculptor, a very fine character in every 
 way — so perfect, indeed, that there is less to say about 
 him than any of the others — modest, earnest, simple, 
 frugal, chaste, and of untiring industry ; living for his 
 art, and perhaps also a little for Trilby, whom he 
 would have been only too glad to marr3\ He was 
 Pygmalion;, she was his Galatea — a Galatea whose 
 marble heart would never beat for Jiim ! 
 
 Durien's house is now the finest in the Pare Mon- 
 ceau; his wife and daughters are the best -dressed 
 
139 
 
 women in Paris, and he one of the happiest of men ; 
 but he will never quite forget poor Galatea : 
 
 " La belle aux pieds d'albatre — aux deux talons de 
 rose !" 
 
 Then there was Vincent, a Yankee medical student, 
 who could both work and play. 
 
 lie is now one of the greatest oculists in the world, 
 and Europeans cross the Atlantic to consult him. lie 
 can still pla3% and Avhen he crosses the Atlantic him- 
 self for that purpose he has to travel incognito like a 
 royalty, lest his play should be marred by work. And 
 his daughters are so beautiful and accomplished that 
 British dukes have sighed after them in vain. In- 
 deed, these fair young ladies spend their autumn holi- 
 day in refusing the British aristocracy. We are told 
 so in the society papers, and I can quite believe it. 
 Love is not always blind; and if he is, Vincent is the 
 man to cure him. 
 
 In those days he prescribed for us all round, and 
 punched and stethoscoped us, and looked at our tongues 
 for love, and told us what to eat, drink, and avoid, and 
 even where to go for it. 
 
 For instance : late one night Little Billee woke up 
 in a cold sweat, and thought himself a dying man — he 
 had felt seedy all day and taken no food ; so he dressed 
 and dragged himself to Vincent's hotel, and woke him 
 up, and said, " Oh, Vincent, Vincent ! I'm a dying 
 man !" and all but fainted on his bed. Vincent felt 
 him all over with the greatest care, and asked him 
 many questions. Then, looking at his watch, he de- 
 livered himself thus : " Humph ! 3.30 ! rather late — 
 
140 
 
 but still — look here, Little Billee— do you know the 
 Halle, on the other side of the water, where they 
 sell vegetables ?" 
 
 " Oh yes ! yes ! What vegetable shall I — " 
 " Listen ! On the north side are two restaurants, 
 Bordier and Baratte. They remain open all night. 
 Now go straight off to one of those tuck shops, and 
 tuck in as big a supper as you possibl}' can. Some 
 people prefer Baratte. I prefer Bordier myself. Per- 
 haps you'd better try Bordier first and Baratte after. 
 At all events, lose no time ; so off you go !" 
 Thus he saved Little Billee from an early grave. 
 
 Then there was the Greek, a boy of only sixteen, 
 but six feet high, and looking ten years older than he 
 was, and able to smoke even stronger tobacco than 
 Taffy himself, and color pipes divinely ; he Avas a 
 great favorite in the Place St. Anatole, for his hm- 
 homie, his niceness, his warm geniality. lie was the 
 capitalist of this select circle (and nobly lavish of his 
 capital). He went by the name of Poluphloisboios- 
 paleapologos Petrilopetrolicoconose — for so he was 
 christened by the Laird — because his real name Avas 
 thought much too long and much too lovel}' for the 
 quartier latin, and reminded one of the Isles of Greece 
 — where burning Sappho loved and sang. 
 
 What was he learning in the Latin quarter? 
 French 'I He spoke French like a native ! Nobod}^ 
 knows. But when his Paris friends transferred their 
 bohemia to London, where Avere they ever made hap- 
 pier and more at home than in his lordly parental 
 abode— or fed Avith nicer thinns 'i 
 
THE CAPITALIST AND THE SWELL 
 
143 
 
 That abode is now his, and lordlier than ever, as 
 becomes the dwelling of a millionaire and city mag- 
 nate ; and its gray -bearded owner is as genial, as jolly, 
 and as hospitable as in the old Paris days, but he no 
 longer colors pipes. 
 
 Then there was Carnegie, fresh from BalHol, red- 
 olent of the 'varsity. He intended himself then for 
 the diplomatic service, and came to Paris to learn 
 French as it is spoke; and spent most of his time 
 with his fashionable English friends on the right side 
 of the river, and the rest with Taffy, the Laird, and 
 Little Billee on the left. Perhaps that is why he has 
 not become an ambassador. He is now only a rural 
 dean, and speaks the worst French I know, and speaks 
 it wherever and whenever he can. 
 
 It serves him right, I think. 
 
 He was fond of lords, and knew some (at least, he 
 gave one that impression), and often talked of them, 
 and dressed so beautifully that even Little Billee was 
 abashed in his presence. Only Taffy, in his threadbare 
 out-at-elbow shooting- jacket and cricket cap, and the 
 Laird, in his tattered straw hat and Taffy's old over- 
 coat down to his heels, dared to walk arm in arm 
 with him — nay, insisted on doing so — as they listened 
 to the band in the Luxembourg Gardens. 
 
 And his whiskers were even longer and thicker and 
 more golden than Taffy's own. But the mere sight 
 of a boxing-glove make him sick. 
 
 Then there was the yellow-haired Antony, a Swiss — 
 the idle apprentice, le " roi des truands," as we called 
 
143 
 
 him — to whom everything was forgiven, as to Fran- 
 9ois Villon, a cause de ses gentillesses surely, for all 
 his reprehensible pranks, the gentlest and most lov- 
 able creature that ever lived in bohemia, or out of it. 
 
 Always in debt, like Svengali — for he had no more 
 notion of the value of money than a humming-bird, 
 and gave away in reckless generosity to friends what 
 in strictness belonged to his endless creditors — like 
 Svengali, humorous, witty, and a most exquisite and 
 orio-inal artist, and also somewhat eccentric in his at- 
 tire (though scrupulously clean), so that people would 
 stare at him as he walked along — a thing that always 
 gave him dire offence ! But unlike Svengali, full of 
 delicacy, refinement, and distinction of mind and man- 
 ner — void of any self-conceit — and, in spite of the ir- 
 regularities of his life, the very soul of truth and hon- 
 or, as gentle as he was chivalrous and brave — the 
 warmest, stanchest, sincerest, most unselfish friend 
 in the world ; and, as long as his purse was full, the 
 best and drollest boon companion in the world — but 
 that was not forever ! 
 
 When the money was gone, then would Antony hie 
 him to some beggarly attic in some lost Parisian 
 slum, and write his own epitaph in lovely French or 
 German verse — or even English (for he was an as- 
 tounding linguist) ; and, telling himself that he was 
 forsaken by family, friends, and mistress alike, look 
 out of his casement over the Paris chimney-pots for 
 the last time, and listen once more to " the harmonies 
 of nature," as he called it — and " aspire towards the in- 
 finite," and bewail "the cruel deceptions of his life" — 
 and finally lay himself down to die of sheer starvation. 
 
144 
 
 And as he lay and waited for his release that was 
 so long in coming, he would beguile the weary hours 
 by mumbling a crust " watered with his own salt 
 tears," and decorating his epitaph with fanciful de- 
 signs of the most exquisite humor, pathos, and beauty 
 — these illustrated epitaphs of the young Antony, of 
 which there exists a goodly number, are now price- 
 less, as all collectors know all over the world. 
 
 Fainter and fainter would he grow — and finally, 
 on the third day or thereabouts, a remittance would 
 reach him from some long-suffering sister or aunt in 
 far Lausanne — or else the fickle mistress or faithless 
 friend (who had been looking for him all over Paris) 
 would discover his hiding-place, the beautiful epitaph 
 would be walked off in triumph to le pere Marcas in 
 tlie Rue du Ghette and sold for twenty, fifty, a hun- 
 dred francs — and then Vogue la galere! And back 
 again to bohemia, dear bohemia and all its joys, as 
 long as the money lasted . . . e poi^ da mj>o! 
 
 And now that his name is a household word in 
 two hemispheres, and he himself an honor and a glory 
 to the land he has adopted as his own, he loves to re- 
 member all this and look back from the lofty pinnacle 
 on which he sits perched up aloft to the impecunious 
 days of his idle apprenticeship — le hon temps oil Von 
 etait si malheureux I 
 
 And with all that Quixotic dignity of his, so fa- 
 mous is he as a wit that when he jokes (and he is 
 always joking) people laugh first, and then ask what 
 he was joking about. And you can even make your 
 own mild funniments raise a roar by merely prefacing 
 them " as Antony once said !" 
 
■ 145 
 
 The present scribe has often done so. 
 
 And if by a happy fluke you should some day hit 
 upon a really good thing of your own — good enough 
 to be quoted — be sure it will come back to you after 
 many days prefaced " as Antony once said." 
 
 And these jokes are so good-natured that j^ou al- 
 most resent their being made at anybod3''s expense 
 but your own — never from Antony 
 
 "The aimless jest tliat sti-iking has caused pain, 
 The idle word that he'd wish back again !" 
 
 Indeed, in spite of his success, I don't suppose he ever 
 made an enemy in his life. 
 
 And here, let me add (lest there be any doubt as to 
 his identity), that he is now tall and stout and strik- 
 ingly handsome, though rather bald — and such an aris- 
 tocrat in bearing, aspect, and manner that you would 
 take him for a blue-blooded descendant of the cru- 
 saders instead of the son of a respectable burgher in 
 Lausanne. 
 
 Then there was Lorrimer, the industrious apprentice, 
 who is now also well-pinnacled on high ; himself a 
 pillar of the Royal Academy — probably, if he lives 
 long enough, its future president — the duly knighted 
 or baroneted Lord Mayor of " all the plastic arts " 
 (except one or two perhaps, here and there, that are 
 not altogether without some importance). 
 
 May this not be for many, many years ! Lorrimer 
 himself would be the first to say so ! 
 
 Tall, thin, red-haired, and well-favored, he was a 
 most eager, earnest, and painstaking young enthusi- 
 
 10 
 
146 
 
 ast, of precocious culture, who read improving books, 
 and did not share in the amusements of the quartier 
 latin, but spent his evenings at home with Handel, 
 Michael Angelo, and Dante, on the respectable side of 
 the river. Also, he went into good society sometimes, 
 with a dress -coat on, and a white tie, and his hair 
 parted in the middle ! 
 
 But in spite of these blemishes on his otherwise ex- 
 emplary record as an art student, he was the most de- 
 lightful companion — the most affectionate, helpful, and 
 sympathetic of friends. May he live long and prosper ! 
 
 Enthusiast as he was, he could only worship one 
 god at a time. It was either Michael Angelo, Phidias, 
 Paul Yeronese, Tintoret, Eaphael, or Titian — never a 
 modern — moderns didn't exist! And so thorough- 
 going was he in his worship, and so persistent in voic- 
 ing it, that he made those immortals quite unpopular 
 in the Place St. Anatole des Arts. We grew to dread 
 their very names. Each of them would last him a 
 couple of months or so ; then he would give us a 
 month's holiday, and take up another. 
 
 Antony did not think much of Lorrimer in those 
 days, nor Lorrimer of him, for all they were such 
 good friends. And neither of them thought much of 
 Little Billee, whose pinnacle (of pure unadulterated 
 fame) is now the highest of all — the highest probably 
 that can be for a mere painter of pictures ! 
 
 And what is so nice about Lorrimer, now that he is 
 a gray beard, an academician, an accomplished man of 
 the world and society, is that he admires Antony's 
 genius more than he can say — and reads Mr. Rudyard 
 Kipling's delightful stories as well as Dante's " In- 
 
147 
 
 ferno" — and can listen with delight to the lovely 
 songs of Signor Tosti, who has not precisely founded 
 himself on Handel — can even scream with laughter at 
 a comic song — even a nigger melody — so, at least, that 
 it but be sung in well-bred and distinguished company 
 — for Lorrimer is no bohemian. 
 
 "Shoo, fly! don'tcher bother me! 
 For I belong to the Comp'ny G !" 
 
 Both these famous men are happily (and most beau- 
 tifully) married — grandfathers, for all I know — and 
 "move in the very best society" (Lorrimer always, 
 I'm told ; Antony now and then) ; "la haute," as it used 
 to be called in French bohemia — meaning dukes and 
 lords and even royalties, I suppose, and those who 
 love them and whom they love. 
 
 That is the best society, isn't it ? At all events, we 
 are assured it used to be ; but that must have been be- 
 fore the present scribe (a meek and somewhat inno- 
 cent outsider) had been privileged to see it with his 
 own little eye. 
 
 And when they happen to meet there (Antony and 
 Lorrimer, I mean), I don't expect they rush very 
 wildly into each other's arms, or talk very fluently 
 about old times. Nor do I suppose their wives are 
 very intimate. None of our wives are. Not even 
 Taffy's and the Laird's. 
 
 Oh, Orestes ! Oh, Pylades ! 
 
 Oh, ye impecunious, unpinnacled young insepara- 
 bles of eighteen, nineteen, twenty, even twenty- five, 
 who share each other's thoughts and purses, and wear 
 
148 
 
 each other's clothes, and swear each other's oaths, and 
 smoke each other's pipes, and respect each other's 
 hghts o' love, and keep each other's secrets, and tell 
 each other's jokes, and pawn each other's watches and 
 merrymake together on the proceeds, and sit all night 
 by each other's bedsides in sickness, and comfort each 
 other in sorrow and disappointment with silent, manly 
 sympathy — " wait till you get to forty year !" 
 
 Wait even till each or either of you gets himself a 
 little pinnacle of his own — be it ever so humble ! 
 
 Nay, wait till either or each of you gets himself a 
 wife ! 
 
 History goes on repeating itself, and so do novels, 
 and this is a platitude, and there's nothing new under 
 the sun. 
 
 May too cecee (as the idiomatic Laird would say, in 
 the language he adores) — may too cecee ay nee eecee 
 nee lah ! 
 
 Then there was Dodor, the handsome ,young dra- 
 gon de la garde — a full private, if you please, with a 
 beardless face, and damask-rosy cheeks, and a small 
 waist, and narrow feet like a lady's, and who, strange 
 to say, spoke English just like an Englishman. 
 
 And his friend Gontran, alias V Zouzou — a corporal 
 in the Zouaves. 
 
 Both of these worthies had met Taffy in the Cri- 
 mea, and frequented the studios in the quartier latin, 
 where they adored (and were adored by^i the grisettes 
 and models, especially Trilby. 
 
 Both of them were distinguished for being the worst 
 subjects (les plus inauvais snjets) of their respective 
 
149 
 
 regiments ; yet both were special favorites not only 
 with their fellow-rankers, but with those in command, 
 from their colonels downward. 
 
 Both were in the habit of being promoted to the 
 rank of corporal or brigadier, and degraded to the 
 rank of private next day for general misconduct, the 
 result of a too exuberant delight in their promotion. 
 
 Neither of them knew fear, envy, malice, temper, or 
 low spirits ; ever said or did an ill-natured thing; ever 
 even thought one ; ever had an enemy but himself. 
 Both had the best or the worst manners going, ac- 
 cording to their company, whose manners they re- 
 flected ; they were true chameleons ! 
 
 Both were always ready to share their last ten-sou 
 piece (not that they ever seemed to have one) with 
 each other or anybody else, or anybody else's last ten- 
 sou piece with you ; to ofi'er you a friend's cigar ; to 
 invite you to dine with any friend they had ; to fight 
 with you, or for you, at a moment's notice. And they 
 made up for all the anxiety, tribulation, shame, and 
 sorrow they caused at home by the endless fun and 
 amusement they gave to all outside. 
 
 It was a pretty dance they led ; but our three 
 friends of the Place St. Anatole (who hadn't got to 
 pay the pipers) loved them both, especially Dodor. 
 
 One fine Sunday afternoon Little Billee found him- 
 self studying life and character in that most delight- 
 ful and festive scene la Fete de St. Cloud, and met 
 Dodor and F Zouzou there, who hailed him with de- 
 light, saying : 
 
 " Nous allons joliment jubiler, nom d'une pipe !" and 
 insisted on his joining in their amusements and pay- 
 
150 
 
 ing for them — roundabouts, swings, the giant, the 
 dwarf, the strong man, the fat woman — to whom they 
 made love and were taken too seriously, and turned 
 out — the menagerie of wild beasts, whom they teased 
 and aggravated till the police had to interfere. Also 
 alfresco dances, where their cancan step was of the 
 wildest and most unbridled character, till a sous- 
 otiicier or a gendarme came in siglit, and then they 
 danced quite mincingly and demurely, en mait/re 
 d'ecole, as they called it, to the huge delight of an 
 immense and ever-increasing crowd, and the disgust 
 of all truly respectable men. 
 
 They also insisted on Little Billee's walking be- 
 tween them, arm in arm, and talking to them in Eng- 
 lish whenever they saw coming towards them a re- 
 spectable Enghsh family with daughters. It was the 
 dragoon's delight to get himself stared at by fair 
 daughters of Albion for speaking as good English 
 as themselves — a rare accomplishment in a French 
 trooper — and Zouzou's happiness to be thought Eng- 
 lish too, though the only English he knew was the 
 phrase " I will not ! I will not !" which he had picked 
 up in the Crimea, and repeated over and over again 
 when he came within ear-shot of a pretty English girl. 
 
 Little Billee was not happy in these circumstances. 
 lie was no snob. But he was a respectably brought- 
 up young Briton of the higher middle class, and it was 
 not quite pleasant for him to be seen (by fair country- 
 women of his own) walking arm in arm on a Sunday 
 afternoon with a couple of French private soldiers, and 
 uncommonly rowdy ones at that. 
 
 Later, they came back to Paris together on the top 
 
' I WILL NOT ! I WILL NOT !' " 
 
152 
 
 of an omnibus, among a very proletarian crowd, and 
 there the two facetious warriors immediately made 
 themselves pleasant all round and became very popu- 
 lar, especially with the women and children; but not, 
 I regret to say, through the propriety, refinement, and 
 discretion of their behavior. Little Billee resolved 
 that he would not go a -pleasuring with them any 
 . more. 
 
 However, they stuck to him through thick and thin, 
 and insisted on escorting him all the way back to the 
 quartier latin, by the Pont de la Concorde and the 
 Rue de Lille in the Faubourg St. Germain. 
 
 Little Billee loved the Faubourg St. Germain, es- 
 pecially the Rue de Lille. He was fond of gazing at 
 the magnificent old mansions, the " hotels " of the old 
 French noblesse, or rather the outside walls thereof, 
 the grand sculptured portals with the armorial bear- 
 ings and the splendid old historic names above them — 
 Hotel de This, Hotel de That, Rohan-Chabot, Mont- 
 morency, La Rochefoucauld-Liancourt, La Tour d'Au- 
 vergne. 
 
 He would forget himself in romantic dreams of past 
 and forgotten French chivalry which these glorious 
 names called up ; for he knew a little of French his- 
 tory, loving to read Froissart and Saint-Simon and the 
 genial Brantome. 
 
 Halting opposite one of the finest and oldest of all 
 these gateways, his especial favorite, labelled " Hotel 
 de la Rochemartel" in letters of faded gold over a 
 ducal coronet and a huge escutcheon of stone, he be- 
 gan to descant upon its architectural beauties and 
 noble proportions to 1' Zouzou. 
 
153 
 
 ^^ Parbleu P^ said V Zouzou, ^^conmi, farceur! 
 why, I was horn there, on the 6th of March, 1834, 
 at 5.30 in the morning. Lucky day for France — 
 hein r 
 
 " Born there ? what do you mean — in the porter's 
 lodge ?" 
 
 At this juncture the two great gates rolled back, a 
 liveried Suisse appeared, and an open carriage and 
 
 pair came out, and in 
 
 --^^ 
 
 ladies and a younger 
 
 one. 
 
 :/7: To Little Billee's 
 
 DODOR IN HIS GLORT 
 
154 
 
 indignation, the two incorrigible warriors made the 
 
 military salute, and the three ladies bowed stiffly and 
 
 gravely. 
 And then (to Little Billee's horror this time) one of 
 
 them happened to look back, and Zouzou actually 
 
 kissed his hand to her. 
 
 " Do you know that lady ?" asked Little Billee, very 
 
 sternly. 
 
 " Parhleu ! sije la connais ! Why, it's my mother ! 
 
 Isn't she nice ? She's rather cross with me just now." 
 " Your mother ! Why, what do you mean ? What 
 
 on earth would your mother be doing in that big car- 
 riage and at that big house ?" 
 " Parhleu, farceur ! She lives there !" 
 '-''Lives there! Why, who and what is she, your 
 
 mother ?" 
 
 " The Duchesse de la Eochemartel, parlleu ! and 
 
 that's my sister; and that's my aunt, Princess de 
 
 Chevagne - Banff remont ! She's the '• imtronne ' of 
 
 that chiG equipage. She's a millionaire, my aunt 
 
 Chevagne !" 
 
 " Well, I never ! What's your name, then ?" 
 
 " Oh, my name ! Hang it — let me see ! Well — 
 
 Gontran — Xavier — Francois — Marie — Joseph d' Am- 
 
 aury — Brissac de Roncesvaulx de la Rochemartel-Bois- 
 
 segur, at your service !" 
 
 " Quite correct !" said Dodor ; " V enfant dit vrai .^" 
 " Well — I — never ! And what's your name, Dodor ?" 
 " Oh ! I'm only a humble individual, and answer to 
 
 the one-horse name of Theodore Rigolot de Lafarce. 
 
 But Zouzou's an awful swell, you know — his brother's 
 
 the Duke !" 
 
HOTKL DE LA ROCHEMARTEL 
 
156 
 
 Little Billee was no snob. But he was a respectably 
 brought-up young Briton of the higher middle class, 
 and these revelations, which he could not but believe, 
 astounded him so that he could hardly speak. Much 
 as he flattered himself that he scorned the bloated 
 aristocracy, titles are titles — even French titles! — 
 and when it comes to dukes and princesses who live in 
 houses like the Hotel de la Rochemartel . . . ! 
 
 It's enough to take a respectably brought-up young 
 Briton's breath away ! 
 
 When he saw TalBfy that evening, he exclaimed : " I 
 say, Zouzou's mother's a duchess !" 
 
 " Yes — the Duchesse de la Rochemartel-Boissegur." 
 
 " You never told me !" 
 
 " You never asked me. It's one of the greatest 
 names in France. They're very poor, I believe." 
 
 " Poor ! You should see the house they live in !" 
 
 " I've been there, to dinner ; and the dinner wasn't 
 very good. They let a great part of it, and live most- 
 ly in the country. The Duke is Zouzou's brother; 
 very unlike Zouzou; he's consumptive and unmarried, 
 and the most respectable man in Paris. Zouzou will 
 be the Duke some day." 
 
 " And Dodor — he's a swell, too, I suppose — he says 
 he's de something or other !" 
 
 " Yes — Rigolot de Lafarce. I've no doubt he de- 
 scends from the Crusaders, too ; the name seems to 
 favor it, anyhow ; and such lots of them do in this 
 country. His mother was English, and bore the 
 worthy name of Brown, He was at school in Eng- 
 . land ; that's why he speaks English so well — and be- 
 haves so badly, perhaps ! He's got a very beautiful 
 
157 
 
 sister, married to a man in the 60th Rifles — Jack 
 Reeve, a son of Lord Reevely's ; a selfish sort of chap. 
 I don't suppose he gets on very well with his brother- 
 in-law. Poor Dodor! His sister's about the only 
 living thing he cares for — except Zouzou." 
 
 I wonder if the bland and genial Monsieur Theodore 
 — " notre Sieur Theodore " — now junior partner in the 
 great haberdashery firm of " Passefil et Rigolot," on 
 the Boulevard des Capucines, and a pillar of the Eng- 
 lish chapel in the Rue Marboeuf, is very hard on his 
 empl(Jyes and employees if they are a little late at 
 their counters on a Monday morning ? 
 
 I wonder if that stuck-up, stingy, stodgy, com- 
 munard-shooting, church -going, time-serving, place- 
 hunting, pious-eyed, pompous old prig, martinet, and 
 philistine. Monsieur le Marechal-Duc de la Roche- 
 martel - Boissegur, ever tells Madame la Marechale- 
 Duchesse {nee Hunks, of Chicago) how once upon a 
 time Dodor and he — 
 
 We will tell no tales out of school. 
 
 The present scribe is no snob. He is a respectably 
 brought-up old Briton of the higher middle-class — at 
 least, he flatters himself so. And he writes for just 
 such old Philistines as himself, who date from a time 
 when titles were not thought so cheap as to-day. 
 Alas ! all reverence for all that is high and time-hon- 
 ored and beautiful seems at a discount. 
 
 So he has kept his blackguard ducal Zouave for the 
 bouquet of this little show — the final honne houche in 
 his bohemian menu — that he may make it palatable 
 to those who only look upon the good old quartier 
 
158 
 
 latin (now no more to speak of) as a very low, com- 
 mon, vulgar quarter indeed, deservedly swept away, 
 where misters the students (shocking bounders and 
 cads) had nothing better to do, day and night, than 
 mount up to a horrid place called the thatched house 
 — la chaumiere — 
 
 " Pour y danser le cancan 
 
 Ou le Robert Macaire — 
 
 Tou jours — tou j ours — toujours— 
 
 La nuit comme le jour , . . 
 
 Et youp ! youp ! youp ! 
 Tra la la la la . . . la la la 1" 
 
 Christmas was drawing near. 
 
 There were days when the whole quartier latin 
 would veil its iniquities under fogs almost worthy of 
 the Thames Valley between London Bridge and West- 
 minster, and out of the studio window the prospect 
 was a dreary blank. No morgue ! no towers of Notre 
 Dame ! not even the chimney-pots over the way — not 
 even the little mediaeval toy turret at the corner of 
 the Rue Yieille des Mauvais Ladres, Little Billee's de- 
 light ! 
 
 The stove had to be crammed till its sides grew a 
 dull deep red before one's fingers could hold a brush 
 or squeeze a bladder ; one had to box or fence at nine 
 in the morning, that one might recover from the cold 
 bath, and get warm for the rest of the day ! 
 
 Taffy and the Laird grew pensive and dreamy, 
 childUke and bland ; and when they talked it was gen- 
 
159 
 
 erally about Christmas at home in merry England and 
 the distant land of cakes, and how good it was to be 
 there at such a time — hunting, shooting, curling, and 
 endless carouse ! 
 
 It was Ho! for the jolly West Riding, and Hey! 
 for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee, till they grew quite 
 homesick, and wanted to start by the very next 
 train. 
 
 They didn't do anything so foolish. They wrote 
 over to friends in London for the biggest turkey, the 
 biggest plum - pudding, that could be got for love or 
 money, with mince-pies, and holly and mistletoe, and 
 sturdy, short, thick English sausages, half a Stilton 
 cheese, and a sirloin of beef — two sirloins, in case one 
 should not be enough. 
 
 For they meant to have a Homeric feast in the 
 studio on Christmas Day — Taffy, the Laird, and Little 
 Billee — and invite all the delightful chums I have been 
 trying to describe ; and that is just why I tried to de- 
 scribe them — Durien, Vincent, Antony, Lorrimer, Car- 
 negie, Petrolicoconose, 1' Zouzou, and Dodor ! 
 
 The cooking and waiting should be done by Trilby, 
 her friend Angele Boisse, M. et Mme. Yinard, and 
 such little Vinards as could be trusted with glass and 
 crockery and mince-pies ; and if that was not enough, 
 they would also cook themselves and wait upon each 
 other. 
 
 When dinner should be over, supper was to follow 
 with scarcely any interval to speak of ; and to partake 
 of this other guests should be bidden — Svengall and 
 Gecko, and perhaps one or two more. No ladies ! 
 
 For, as the unsusceptible Laird expressed it, in the 
 
160 
 
 language of a gillie he had once met at a servants' 
 dance in a Highland country-house, " Them wimmen 
 spiles the ball !" 
 
 Elaborate cards of invitation were sent out, in the 
 designing and ornamentation of which the Laird and 
 Taffy exhausted all their fancy (Little Billee had no 
 time). 
 
 Wines and spirits and English beers were procured 
 at great cost from M. E. Delevingne's, in the Rue St. 
 Honore, and liqueurs of every description — chartreuse, 
 cura^oa, ratafia de cassis, and anisette ; no expense 
 was spared. 
 
 Also, truffled galantines of turkey, tongues, hams, 
 rillettes de Tours, pates de foie gras, " f romage d'ltalie " 
 (which has nothing to do with cheese), saucissons 
 d' Aries et de L^^on, with and without garlic, cold jel- 
 lies peppery and salt — everything that French char- 
 cutiers and their wives can make out of French pigs, 
 or any other animal whatever, beast, bird, or fowl 
 (even cats and rats), for the supper ; and sweet jellies, 
 and cakes, and sweetmeats, and confections of all 
 kinds, from the famous pastry-cook at the corner of 
 the Rue Castiglione. 
 
 Mouths went watering all day long in joyful antici- 
 pation. They water somewhat sadly now at the mere 
 remembrance of these delicious things— the mere im- 
 mediate sight or scent of which in these degenerate 
 latter days would no longer avail to promote any such 
 delectable secretion. Helas ! ahimc ! ach weh ! ay de 
 mi ! eheu ! ol'/iot — in point of fact, alas ! 
 
 That is the very exclamation I wanted. 
 
 Christmas Eve came round. The pieces of resistance 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE 
 
163 
 
 and plum-pudding and mince-pies had not yet arrived 
 from London — but there was plenty of time. 
 
 Les trois Angliches dined at le pere Trin's, as usual, 
 and played billiards and dorainos at the Cafe du Lux- 
 embourg, and possessed their souls in patience till it 
 was time to go and hear the midnight mass at the 
 Madeline, where Roucouly, the great barytone of the 
 Opera Comique, was retained to sing Adam's famous 
 Noel. 
 
 The whole quartier seemed alive with the reveillon. 
 It was a clear, frosty night, with a splendid moon just 
 past the full, and most exhilarating w^as the walk 
 along the quays on the Rive Gauche, over the Pont de 
 la Concorde and across the Place thereof, and up the 
 thronged Rue de la Madeleine to the massive Par- 
 thenaic place of worship that always has such a pagan, 
 worldly look of smug and prosperous modernity. 
 
 They struggled manfully, and found standing and 
 kneeling room among that fervent crowd, and heard 
 the impressive service with mixed feelings, as became 
 true Britons of very advanced liberal and religious 
 opinions ; not with the unmixed contempt of the proper 
 British Orthodox (who were there in full force, one 
 may be sure). 
 
 But their susceptible hearts soon melted at the beau- 
 tiful music, and in mere sensuous attendrissement they 
 were quickly in unison with all the rest. 
 
 For as the clock struck twelve out pealed the organ, 
 and up rose the finest voice in France : 
 
 " Minuit, Chretiens ! c'est I'heure solennelle 
 Oil THomme-Dieu descendit iiarmi nous !" 
 
163 
 
 And a wave of religious emotion rolled over Little 
 Billee and submerged him ; swept him off his little 
 legs, swept him out of his little self, drowned him in 
 a great seething surge of love — love of his kind, love 
 of love, love of life, love of death, love of all that is 
 
 " ' ALLONS GLYCERE ! RO0GIS MON VERRE. 
 
 and ever was and ever will be — a very large order 
 indeed, even for Little Billee. 
 
 And it seemed to him that he stretched out his 
 arms for love to one figure especially beloved beyond 
 
164 
 
 all the rest — one figure erect on high with arms out- 
 stretched to him, in more than common fellow ship of 
 need ; not the sorrowful figure crowned with thorns, 
 for it was in the likeness of a woman ; but never that 
 of the Virgin Mother of Our Lord. 
 
 It was Trilby, Trilby, Trilby ! a poor fallen sinner 
 and waif all but lost amid the scum of the most cor- 
 rupt city on earth. Trilby weak and mortal like him- 
 self, and in woful want of pardon ! and in her gray 
 dovelike eyes he saw the shining of so great a love 
 that he was abashed ; for well he knew that all that 
 love was his, and would be his forever, come what 
 would or could. 
 
 "Peuple, debout ! Chante ta delivrance ! 
 Noel ! Noel ! Void le Bedempteur !" 
 
 So sang and rang and pealed and echoed the big, 
 deep, metallic barytone bass — above the organ, above 
 the incense, above everything else in the world — till 
 the very universe seemed to shake 'with the rolling 
 thunder of that great message of love and forgiveness ! 
 
 Thus at least felt Little Billee, whose way it was to 
 magnify and exaggerate all things under the subtle 
 stimulus of sound, and the singing human voice had 
 especially strange power to penetrate into his inmost 
 depths — even the voice of man ! 
 
 And what voice but the deepest and gravest and 
 grandest there is can give worthy utterance to such 
 a message as that, the epitome, the abstract, the very 
 essence of all collective humanity's wisdom at its 
 best!. 
 
165 
 
 Little Billee reached the Hotel Corneille that night 
 in a very exalted frame of mind indeed, the loftiest, 
 lowliest mood of all. 
 
 Now see what sport we are of trivial, base, ignoble 
 earthly things ! 
 
 Sitting on the door-step and smoking two cigars at 
 once he found Ribot, one of his fellow-lodgers, whose 
 room was just under his own. Ribot was so tipsy 
 that he could not ring. But he could still sing, and 
 did so at the top of his voice. It was not the Noel 
 of Adam that he sang, tie had not spent his reveil- 
 lon in any church. 
 
 With the help of a sleepy waiter, Little Billee got 
 the bacchanalian into his room and lit his candle for 
 him, and, disengaging himself from his maudhn em- 
 braces, left him to wallow in solitude. 
 
 As he lay awake in his bed, trying to recall the 
 deep and high emotions of the evening, he heard the 
 tipsy hog below tumbling about his room and still try- 
 ing to sing his senseless ditty : 
 
 " AUons, Glycere ! 
 
 Rougis mon verre 
 Du jus divin dont mon coeur est, toujours jaloux . . . 
 
 Et puis a table, 
 
 Bacchante aimable ! 
 Enivrons-nous (liic) Les g-glougloux sont des rendezvous 1" . . . 
 
 Then the song ceased for a while, and soon there 
 were other sounds, as on a Channel steamer. Glou- 
 gloux indeed ! 
 
 Then the fear arose in Little Billee's mind lest the 
 drunken beast should set fire to his bedroom cur- 
 
m 
 
 tains. All heavenly visions were chased away for the 
 night. . . . 
 
 Our hero, half -crazed with fear, disgust, and irri- 
 tation, lay wide awake, his nostrils on the watch for 
 the smell of burning chintz or muslin, and wondered 
 how an educated man — for Ribot was a law-student — 
 could ever make such a filthy beast of himself as that ! 
 It was a scandal — a disgrace ; it was not to be borne ; 
 there should be no forgiveness for such as Ribot — not 
 even on Christmas Day ! He would complain to 
 Madame Paul, the patronne ; he would have Ribot 
 turned out into the street ; he would leave the ho- 
 tel himself the very next morning ! At last he fell 
 asleep, thinking of all he would do ; and thus, ridic- 
 ulously and ignominiously for Little Billee, ended the 
 reveillon. 
 
 Next morning he complained to Madame Paul ; and 
 though he did not give her warning, nor even insist on 
 the expulsion of Ribot (who, as he heard with a hard 
 heart, was "bien malade ce matin"), he expressed 
 himself very severely on the conduct of that gentle- 
 man, and on the dangers from fire that might arise 
 from a tipsy man being trusted alone in a small bed- 
 room with chintz curtains and a lighted candle. If it 
 hadn't been for himself, he told her, Ribot would have 
 slept on the door-step, and serve him right ! He 
 was really grand in his virtuous indignation, in spite 
 of his imperfect French ; and Madame Paul was deep- 
 ly contrite for her peccant lodger, and profuse in her 
 apologies; and Little Billee began his twenty -first 
 Christmas Day like a Pharisee, thanking his star that 
 he was not as Ribot ! 
 
Ipart jfourtb 
 
 "Feliclte passee 
 Qui ne peux revenir, 
 Tourraent de ma pensee, 
 Que n'ay-je, en te perdant, perdu le souvenir !" 
 
 Mid-day had struck. The expected hamper had not 
 turned up in the Place St. Anatole des Arts. 
 
 All Madame Vinard's kitchen battery was in readi- 
 ness ; Trilby and Madame Angele Boisse were in the 
 studio, their sleeves turned up, and ready to begin. 
 
 At twelve the trois Angliches and the two fair 
 blanchisseuses sat down to lunch in a very anxious 
 frame of mind, and finished a pate de foie gras and 
 two bottles of Burgundy between them, such was their 
 disquietude. 
 
 The guests had been invited for six o'clock. 
 
 Most elaborately they laid the cloth on the table 
 they had borrowed from the Hotel de Seine, and set- 
 tled who was to sit next to Avhom, and then unsettled 
 it, and quarrelled over it — Trilby, as was her wont in 
 such matters, assuming an authority that did not right- 
 ly belong to her, and of course getting her own way 
 in the end. 
 
 And that, as the Laird remarked, was her confound- 
 ed Trilbyness. 
 
 Two o'clock — three — four — but no hamper ! Dark- 
 ness had almost set in. It was simply maddening. 
 
They knelt on the 
 divan, with their el- 
 bows on the window- 
 sill, and watched the 
 street lamps popping 
 into life along the 
 quays — and looked out 
 soDVENiR through the gathering 
 
 dusk for the van from 
 
 the Chemin de Fer du Nord — and gloomily thought 
 
 of the Morgue, which they could still make out across 
 
 the river. 
 
 At length the Laird and Trilby went off in a cab to 
 
 the station — a long drive — and, lo ! before they came 
 
 back the long-expected hamper arrived, at six o'clock. 
 And with it Durien, Vincent, Antony, Lorrimer, 
 
 Carnegie, Petrolicoconose, Dodor, and 1' Zouzou — the 
 
 last two in uniform, as usual. 
 
 And suddenly the studio, which had been so silent, 
 
 dark, and dull, with Taffy and Little Billee sitting 
 
169 
 
 hopeless and despondent round the stove, became a 
 scene of the noisiest, busiest, and cheerfulest anima- 
 tion. The three big lamps were lit, and all the Chi- 
 nese lanterns. The pieces of resistance and the pud- 
 ding were whisked off by Trilby, Angele, and Madame 
 Vinard to other regions — the porter's lodge and Duri- 
 en's studio (which had been lent for the purpose) ; and 
 every one was pressed into the preparations for the 
 banquet. There was plenty for idle hands to do. 
 Sausages to be fried for the turkey, stuffing made, 
 and sauces, salads mixed, and punch — holly hung in 
 festoons all round and about — a thousand things. 
 Everybody was so clever and good-humored that no- 
 body got in anybody's way — not even Carnegie, who 
 was in evening dress (to the Laird's delight). So they 
 made him do the scullion's work — cleaning, rinsing, 
 peeling, etc. 
 
 The cooking of the dinner was almost better fun 
 than the eating of it. And though there were so 
 many cooks, not even the broth was spoiled (cocka- 
 leekie, from a receipt of the Laird's). 
 
 It was ten o'clock before they sat down to that 
 most memorable repast. 
 
 Zouzou and Dodor, who had been the most useful 
 and energetic of all its cooks, apparently quite forgot 
 they were due at their respective barracks at that very 
 moment : they had only been able to obtain " la per- 
 mission de dix heures." If they remembered it, the 
 certainty that next day Zouzou would be reduced to 
 the ranks for the fifth time, and Dodor confined to 
 his barracks for a month, did not trouble them in the 
 least. 
 
170 
 
 The waiting was as good as the cooking. The hand- 
 some, quick, authoritative Madame Vinard was in a 
 dozen places at once, and openly prompted, rebuked, 
 and ballyragged her husband into a proper smart- 
 ness. The pretty little Madame Angele moved about 
 as deftly and as quietly as a mouse ; which of course 
 did not prevent them botli from genially joining in 
 the general conversation whenever it wandered into 
 French. 
 
 Trilby, tall, graceful, and stately, and also swift of 
 action, though more like Juno or Diana than Hebe, 
 devoted herself more especially to her own particular 
 favorites — Durien, Taffy, the Laird, Little Billee — and 
 Dodor and Zouzou, whom she loved, and tutoye'd en 
 bonne camarade as she served them with all there was 
 of the choicest. 
 
 The two little Vinards did their little best — they 
 scrupulously respected the mince-pies, and only broke 
 two bottles of oil and one of Harvey sauce, which 
 made their mother furious. To console them, the 
 Laird took one of them on each knee and gave them 
 of his share of plum-pudding and many other unac- 
 customed good things, so bad for their little French 
 tumtums. 
 
 The genteel Carnegie had never been at such a queer 
 scene in his life. It opened his mind — and Dodor and 
 Zouzou, between whom he sat (the Laird thought it 
 would do him good to sit between a private soldier 
 and a humble corporal), taught him more French 
 than he had learned during the three months he had 
 spent in Paris. It was a specialty of theirs. It was 
 more colloquial than what is generally used in dip- 
 
171 
 
 lomatic circles, and stuck longer in the memory ; but 
 it hasn't interfered with his preferment in the Church. 
 
 He quite unbent. He was the first to volunteer a 
 song (without being asked) when the pipes and cigars 
 were lit, and after the usual toasts had been drunk — 
 her Majesty's health, Tennyson, Thackeray, and Dick- 
 ens ; and John Leech. 
 
 He sang, with a very cracked and rather hiccupy 
 voice, his only song (it seems) — an English one, of 
 which the burden, he explained, was French: 
 
 ' ' Veeverler veeverler veevei'Ier vee 
 Veeverler companyee !" 
 
 And Zouzou and Dodor complimented him so pro- 
 fusely on his French accent that he was with difficulty 
 prevented from singing it all over again. 
 
 Then everybody sang in rotation. 
 
 The Laird, with a capital barytone, sang 
 
 "Hie diddle Dee for tlie Lowhiuds low," 
 
 which was encored. 
 
 Little Billee sang " Little Billee." 
 Vincent sang 
 
 "Old Joe kicking up behind and afore, 
 And the yaller gal a-kickiug up behind old Joe." 
 
 A capital song, with words of quite a masterly scan- 
 sion. 
 
 Antony sang " Le Sire de Framboisy." Enthusias- 
 tic encore. 
 
172 
 
 Lorrimer, inspired no doubt by the occasion, sang 
 the " Hallelujah Chorus," and accompanied himself on 
 the piano, but failed to obtain an encore. 
 
 Durien sang 
 
 "Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment; 
 Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie . , ." 
 
 It was his favorite song, and one of the beautiful songs 
 of the world, and he sang it very well — and it became 
 popular in the quartier latin ever after. 
 
 The Greek couldn't sing, and ver}'- wisely didn't. 
 
 Zouzou sang capitally a capital song in praise of " le 
 vin a quat' sous !" 
 
 Taffy, in a voice like a high wind (and with a very 
 good imitation of the Yorkshire brogue), sang a Som- 
 ersetshire hunting-ditty, ending : 
 
 "Of this 'ere song should I be axed the reason for to show, 
 I don't, exactly know, I don't exactly know ! 
 But all my fancy dwells upon Nancy, 
 And I sing Tally-ho !" 
 
 It is a quite superexcellent ditty, and haunts my 
 memory to this day ; and one felt sure that Nanc}^ 
 was a dear and a sweet, wherever she lived, and when. 
 So Tatfy was encored twice — once for her sake, once 
 for his own. 
 
 And finally, to the surprise of all, the bold dragoon 
 sang (in English) " My Sister Dear," out of Masa7iiello, 
 with such pathos, and in a voice so sweet and high 
 and well in tune, that his audience felt almost w^eepy 
 in the midst of their jollification, and grew quite sen- 
 
174 
 
 timental, as Englishmen abroad are apt to do when 
 they are rather tipsy and hear pretty music, and think 
 of their dear sisters across the sea, or their friends' dear 
 sisters. 
 
 Madame Yinard interrupted her Christmas dinner 
 on the model-throne to listen, and wept and wiped her 
 eyes quite openly, and remarked to Madame Boisse, 
 who stood modestly close by : " II est gentil tout plein, 
 ce dragon ! Mon Dieu ! comme il chante bien ! II est 
 Angliche aussi, il parait. lis sont joliment bien eleves, 
 tons ces Angliches — tons plus gentils les uns que les 
 autres! et quant a Monsieur Litrebili, on lui donnerait 
 le bon Dieu sans confession !" 
 
 And Madame Boisse agreed. 
 
 Then Svengali and Gecko came, and the table had 
 to be laid and decorated anew, for it was supper- 
 time. 
 
 Supper was even jollier than dinner, which had taken 
 off the keen edge of the appetites, so that every one 
 talked at once — the true test of a successful supper — 
 except when Antony told some of his experiences of 
 bohemia ; for instance, how, after staying at home all 
 day for a month to avoid his creditors, he became reck- 
 less one Sunday morning, and went to the Bains De- 
 ligny, and jumped into a deep part by mistake, and 
 was saved from a watery grave by a bold swimmer, 
 who turned out to be his boot-maker, Satory, to whom 
 he owed sixty francs — of all his duns the one he dread- 
 ed the most — and who didn't let him go in a hurry. 
 
 Whereupon Svengali remarked that he also owed six- 
 ty francs to Satory — " Mais comme che ne me baigne 
 chamais, che n'ai rien a craindre !" 
 
175 
 
 Whereupon there was such a laugh that Svengali 
 felt he had scored off Antony at last and had a prettier 
 wit. He flattered himself that he'd got the laugh of 
 Antony this time. 
 
 And after supper Svengali and Gecko made such 
 lovely music that everybody was sobered and athirst 
 again, and the punch-bowl, wreathed with holly and 
 mistletoe, was placed in the middle of the table, and 
 clean glasses set all round it. 
 
 A DUCAL FRENCH FIGHTINQ-COCK 
 
 Then Dodor and 1' Zouzou stood up to dance with 
 Trilby and Madame Angele, and excuted a series of 
 cancan steps, which, though they were so inimitably 
 droll that they had each and all to be encored, were 
 such that not one of them need have brought the blush 
 of shame to the cheek of modesty. 
 
176 
 
 Then the Laird danced a sword-dance over two T 
 squares and broke them both. And Taffy, baring his 
 mighty arms to the admiring gaze of all, did dumb- 
 bell exercises, with Little Billee for a dumb-bell, and all 
 but dropped him into the punch-bowl; and tried to cut 
 a pewter ladle in two with Dodor's sabre, and sent it 
 through the window; and this made him cross, so that 
 he abused French sabres, and said they were made of 
 worse pewter than even French ladles ; and the Laird 
 sententiously opined that they managed these things 
 better in England, and winked at Little Billee. 
 
 Then they played at "cock- fighting," with their 
 wrists tied across their shins, and a broomstick thrust 
 in between ; thus manacled, you are placed opposite 
 your antagonist, and try to upset him with your feet, 
 and he you. It is a very good game. The cuirassier 
 and the Zouave playing at this got so angry, and 
 were so irresistibly funny a sight, that the shouts of 
 laughter could be heard on the other side of the river, 
 ISO that a sergent de ville came in and civilly request- 
 ed them not to make so much noise. They were dis- 
 turbing the whole quartier, he said, and there was 
 quite a " rassemblement " outside. So the}^ made him 
 tipsy, and also another policeman, who came to look 
 after his comrade, and yet another; and these guardi- 
 ans of the peace of Paris were trussed and made to 
 play at cock-fighting, and were still funnier than the 
 two soldiers, and laughed louder and made more noise 
 than any one else, so that Madame Vinard had to re- 
 monstrate with them; till they got too tipsy to speak, 
 and fell fast asleep, and were laid next to each other 
 behind the stove. 
 
177 
 
 The j?^ de siecle reader, disgusted at the thought of 
 such an orgy as I have been trying to describe, must 
 remember that it happened in the fifties, when men 
 calhng themselves gentlemen, and being called so, 
 still v/renched off door-knockers and came back drunk 
 from the Derby, and even drank too much after 
 dinner before joining the ladies, as is all duly chroni- 
 cled and set down in John Leech's immortal pictures 
 of life and character out of Punch. 
 
 Then M. and Mme. Vinard and Trilby and An- 
 gele Boisse bade the company good-night. Trilby be- 
 ing: the last of them to leave. 
 
 Little Billee took her to the top of the staircase, 
 and there he said to her : 
 
 " Trilby, I have asked you nineteen times, and you 
 have refused. Trilby, once more, on Christmas night, 
 for the twentieth i\mQ—will you marry me ? If not, 
 I leave Paris to-morrow morning, and never come 
 back. I swear it on my word of honor !" 
 
 Trilby turned very pale, and leaned her back against 
 the wall, and covered her face with her hands. 
 
 Little Billee pulled them away. 
 
 " Answer me, Trilby !" 
 
 "God forgive me, yes T said Trilby, and she ran 
 down-stairs, weeping. 
 
 It was now very late. 
 
 It soon became evident that Little Billee was in 
 extraordinary high spirits— in an abnormal state of 
 excitement. 
 
 He challenged Svengali to spar, and made his nose 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 bleed, and frightened him out of his sardonic wits. 
 He performed wonderful and quite unsuspected feats 
 of strength. He swore eternal friendship to Dodor 
 and Zouzou, and filled their glasses again and again, 
 and also (in his innocence) his own, and trinqued with 
 them many times running. They were the last to 
 leave (except the three helpless policemen) ; and at 
 about five or six in the morning, to his surprise, he 
 found himself walking between Dodor and Zouzou by 
 a late windy moonlight in the Rue Vieille des JVIau- 
 vais Ladres, now on one side of the frozen gutter, now 
 on the other, now in the middle of it, stopping them 
 now and then to tell them how jolly they were and 
 how dearly he loved them. 
 
 Presently his hat flew away, and went rolling and 
 skipping and bounding up the narrow street, and they 
 discovered that as soon as they let each other go to 
 run after it, they all three sat down. 
 
 So Dodor and Little Billee remained sitting, with 
 their arms round each other's necks and their feet in 
 the gutter, while Zouzou went after the hat on all 
 fours, and caught it, and brought it back in his mouth 
 like a tipsy retriever. Little Billee wept for sheer 
 love and gratitude, and called him a ctiry/iatide (in 
 English), and laughed loudly at his own wit, which 
 was quite thrown away on Zouzou ! " No man ever 
 had such dear, dear frenge! no man ever was 
 s'happy !" 
 
 After sitting for a while in love and amity, they 
 managed to get up on their feet again, each helping 
 the other; and in some never-to-be-remembered way 
 they reached the Hotel Corneille. 
 
♦"answer me, trilby I" 
 
180 
 
 There they sat little Billee on the door-step and 
 rang the bell, and seeing some one coming up the 
 Place de TOdeon, and fearing he might be a sergent 
 de ville, they bid Little Billee a most affectionate but 
 hasty farewell, kissing him on both cheeks in French 
 fashion, and contriving to get themselves round the 
 corner and out of sight. 
 
 Little Billee tried to sino: Zouzou's drinkino:-sono; : 
 
 "Quoi de plus doux 
 Que les glougloux — 
 Les glougloux du vin a quat' sous 
 
 The stranger came up. Fortunately, it was no ser- 
 gent de ville, but Ribot, just back from a Christmas- 
 tree and a little family dance at his aunt's, Madame 
 
 Kolb (the Alsacian bank- 
 er's wife, in the Rue de 
 la Chaussee d'Antin). 
 
 A CARYff^riDE 
 
m 
 
 Next morning poor Little Biliee was dreadfully ill. 
 
 He had passed a terrible night. His bed had 
 heaved like the ocean, with oceanic results. He had 
 forgotten to put out his candle, but fortunately Ribot 
 had blown it out for him, after putting him to bed 
 and tucking him up like a real good Samaritan. 
 
 And next morning, when Madame Paul brought 
 him a cup of tisane de chiendent (which does not hap- 
 pen to mean a hair of the dog that bit him), she was 
 kind, but very severe on the dangers and disgrace of 
 intoxication, and talked to him like a mother. 
 
 "If it had not been for kind Monsieur Ribot" (she 
 told him), " the door-step would have been your por- 
 tion ; and who could say you didn't deserve it? And 
 then think of the dangers of fire from a tipsy man all 
 alone in a small bedroom with chintz curtains and a 
 lighted candle !" 
 
 "liibot was kind enough to blow out my candle," 
 said Little Biliee, humbly. 
 
 " Ah, Dame !" said Madame Paul, Avith much mean- 
 ing — " au moins il a hon cceitr, Monsieur Ribot !'' 
 
 And the crudest sting of all was when the good- 
 natured and incorrigibly festive Ribot came and sat 
 by his bedside, and was kind and tendei'ly sympa- 
 thetic, and got him a pick-me-up from the chemist's 
 (unbeknown to Madame Paul). 
 
 "Credieu! vous vous etes cranement bien amuse, 
 hier soir ! quelle bosse, hein ! je parie que c'etait plus 
 (Irule que chez ma tante Kolb !" 
 
 All of which, of course, it is unnecessary to trans- 
 late ; except, perhaps, the word " bosse," which stands 
 for "noce," which stands for a "jolly good spree." 
 
182 
 
 In all his innocent little life Little Billee had never 
 dreamed of such humiliation as this — such ignominious 
 depths of shame and misery and remorse! lie did 
 not care to live. He had but one longing : that Tril- 
 by, dear Trilby, kind Trilby, would come and pillow 
 his head on her beautiful white English bosom, and 
 lay her soft, cool, tender hand on his aching brow, and 
 there let him go to sleep, and sleeping, die ! 
 
 He slept and slept, with no better rest for his 
 aching brow than the pillow of his bed in the Hotel 
 Corneille, and failed to die this time. And when, after 
 some forty-eight hours or so, he had quite slept off the 
 fumes of that memorable Christmas debauch, he found 
 that a sad thing had liappened to him, and a strange ! 
 
 It was as though a tarnishing breath had swept 
 over the reminiscent mirror of his mind and left a lit- 
 tle film behind it, so that no past thing he wished to 
 see therein was reflected with quite the old pristine 
 clearness. As though the keen, quick, razorlike edge 
 of his power to reach and re-evoke the by-gone charm 
 and glamour and essence of things had been blunted 
 and coarsened. As though the bloom of that special 
 joy, the gift he unconsciously had of recalling past 
 emotions and sensations and situations, and making 
 them actual once more by a mere effort of the will, 
 had been brushed away. 
 
 And he never recovered the full use of that most 
 precious faculty, the boon of j^outh and happy child- 
 hood, and which he had once possessed, without know- 
 ing it, in such singular and exceptional completeness. 
 He was to lose other precious faculties of his over-rich 
 and complex nature — to be pruned and clipped and 
 
183 
 
 thinned — that his one supreme faculty of painting 
 might have elbow-room to reach its fullest, or else you 
 would never have seen the wood for the trees (or vice 
 versa — which is it ?). 
 
 *"les glougloux du tin a Q0at' sous. . . .'" 
 
 On New-year's Day Taffy and the Laird were at 
 their work in the studio, when there was a knock at 
 the door, and Monsieur Yinard, cap in hand, respect- 
 fully introduced a pair of visitors, an English lady 
 and gentleman. 
 
184 
 
 The gentleman was a clergyman, small, thin, round- 
 shouldered, with a long neck ; weak-eyed and dryly 
 polite. The lady was middle-aged, though still young 
 looking; very pretty, with gray hair; very well 
 dressed ; very small, full of nerv'^ous energy, with 
 tiny hands and feet. It was Little Billee's mother; 
 and the clergyman, the Rev. Thomas Bagot, was her 
 brother-in-law. 
 
 Their faces were full of trouble — so much so that 
 the two painters did not even apologize for the care- 
 lessness of their attire, or for the odor of tobacco that 
 filled the room. Little Billee's mother recognized the 
 two painters at a glance, from the sketches and descrip- 
 tions of which her son's letters were always full. 
 
 They all sat down. 
 
 After a moment's embarrassed silence, Mrs. Bagot 
 exclaimed, addressing Taffy : " Mr. Wynne, we are in 
 terrible distress of mind, I don't know if my son has 
 told you, but on Christmas Day he engaged himself to 
 be married !" 
 
 "To — be — married r exclaimed Taffy and the 
 Laird, for whom this was news indeed. 
 
 "Yes — to be married to a Miss Trilby O'Ferrall, 
 who, from what he implies, is in quite a different po- 
 sition in life to himself. Do you know the lady, Mr. 
 Wynne?" 
 
 " Oh yes ! I know her very well indeed ; we all 
 know her." 
 
 " Is she English ?" 
 
 " She's an English subject, I believe." 
 
 " Is she a Protestant or a Roman Catholic ?" in- 
 quired the clergyman. 
 
185 
 
 " A — a — upon my word, I reallj'' don't know !" 
 
 "You know her very well indeed, and you donH — 
 hnow — that^ Mr. Wynne !" exclaimed Mr. Bagot. 
 
 "Is she a lady^ Mr. "Wynne?" asked Mrs. Bagot, 
 somewhat impatiently, as if that were a much more 
 important matter. 
 
 By this time the Laird had managed to basely de- 
 sert his friend ; had got himself into his bedroom, 
 and from thence, by another door, into the street and 
 away. 
 
 " A lady ?" said Taffy ; "a — it so much depends 
 upon Avhat that word exactly means, you know ; things 
 are so — a — so different here. Her father was a gentle- 
 man, I believe — a fellow of Trinity, Cambridge — and 
 a clergyman, if that means anything ! ... he was unfort- 
 unate and all that — a — intemperate, I fear, and not 
 successful in life. He has been dead six or seven 
 years." 
 
 " And her mother?" 
 
 " I really know very little about her mother, except 
 that she was very handsome, I believe, and of inferior 
 social rank to her husband. She's also dead ; she died 
 soon after him." 
 
 " What is the young lady, then ? An English gov- 
 erness, or something of that sort?" 
 
 "Oh, no, no — a — nothing of that sort," said Taffy 
 (and inwardly, " You coward — you cad of a Scotch 
 thief of a sneak of a Laird — to leave all this to me !"). 
 
 " What ? Has she independent means of her own, 
 then ?" 
 
 " A — not that I know of ; I should even say, decid- 
 edly not !" 
 
186 
 
 " What is she, then ? She's at least respectable, I 
 hope !" 
 
 "At present she's a — a blanchisseuse de fin — that is 
 considered respectable here," 
 
 " Why, that's a washer-woman, isn't it ?" 
 
 " Well — rather better than that, perhaps — de Jin, 
 you know ! — things are so difTerent in Paris ! I don't 
 think you'd say she was very much like a washer- 
 woman — to look at !" 
 
 " Is she so good-looking, then T 
 
 -' Oh yes ; extremely so. You may well say that — 
 very beautiful, indeed — about that, at least, there is 
 no doubt whatever !" 
 
 " And of unblemished character ?" 
 
 Taffy, red and perspiring as if he were going through 
 his Indian-club exercise, was silent — and his face ex- 
 pressed a miserable perplexity. But nothing could 
 equal the anxious misery of those two maternal eyes, 
 so wistfully fixed on his. 
 
 After some seconds of a most painful stillness, the 
 hidy said, "Can't you — oh, can^t you give me an an- 
 swer, Mr. Wynne?" 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Bagot, you have placed me in a ter- 
 rible position ! I — I love your son just as if he were 
 my own brother! This engagement is a complete 
 surprise to me — a most painful surprise ! I'd thought 
 of many possible things, but never of that/ 1 can- 
 not — I really mtist not conceal from 3^ou that it 
 Avould be an unfortunate marriage for your son — 
 from a — a worldly point of view, 3^ou know — 
 although both I and McAllister have a very deep and 
 warm regard for poor Trilby OTerrall — indeed, a 
 
187 
 
 great admiration and affection and respect ! She was 
 once a model." 
 
 "A model,, Mr. Wynne? "What sort of a model — 
 there are models and models, of course." 
 
 "'is she a lady, MR. WYNNE?'" 
 
 " Well, a model of every sort, in every possible sense 
 of the word — head, hands, feet, everything !" 
 
 " A model for the Jigure V 
 
 " Well— yes !" 
 
 " Oh, my God ! my God ! my God !" cried Mrs. 
 Bagot — and she got up and walked up and down the 
 
188 
 
 studio in a most terrible state of agitation, her brother- 
 in-law following her and begging her to control her- 
 self. Her exclamations seemed to shock him, and she 
 didn't seem to care. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Wynne ! Mr. Wynne ! If you only hieiv 
 what my son is to me — to all of us— always has been I 
 He has been with us all his life, till he came to this 
 wicked, accursed city ! My poor husband would never 
 hear of his going to any school, for fear of all the 
 harm he might learn there. My son was as inno- 
 cent and pure-minded as any girl, Mr. Wynne — I could 
 have trusted him anywhere — and that's why I gave 
 way and allowed him to come Iiere, of all places in the 
 world — all alone. Oh ! I should have come with him ! 
 Fool — fool — fool that I was ! . . . 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Wynne, he won't see either his mother or 
 his uncle ! I found a letter from him at the hotel, 
 saying he'd left Paris^and I don't even know where 
 he's gone I . . . Can't you, can't Mr. McAllister, do 
 anything to avert this miserable disaster? You don't 
 know how he loves you both — you should see his let- 
 ters to me and to his sister ! they are always full of 
 you !" 
 
 "Indeed, Mrs. Bagot — you can count on McAllister 
 and me for doing everything in our power ! But it is 
 of no use our trying to influence your son — I feel 
 quite sure of tluit! It is to her we must make our 
 appeal." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Wynne! to a washer -woman — a figure 
 model — and Heaven knows what besides ! and with 
 such a chance as this !" 
 
 "Mrs. Bagot, you don't know her? She may have 
 
189 
 
 heen all that. Bat strange as it may seem to you— 
 and seems to me, for that matter — she's a — she's — 
 upon my word of honor, I really think she's about the 
 best woman I ever met — the most unselfish — the 
 most — " 
 
 "Ah! She's a heautifid woman — I can well see 
 thatr 
 
 "She has a beautiful nature, Mrs. Bagot — you may 
 believe me or not, as you like — and it is to that I shall 
 make my appeal, as your son's friend, who has his in- 
 terests at heart. And let me tell you that deeply as I 
 grieve for you in your present distress, my grief and 
 concern for her are far greater !" 
 
 " What ! grief for her if she marries my son !" 
 
 " No, indeed — but if she refuses to marry him. She 
 may not do so, of course — but my instinct tells me slie 
 will !" 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Wynne, is that likely ?" 
 
 "I will do my best to make it so — with such an 
 utter trust in her unselfish goodness of heart and her 
 passionate affection for your son as — " 
 
 " How do you know she has all this passionate af- 
 fection for him?" 
 
 " Oh, McAllister and I have long guessed it— though 
 we never thought this particular thing would come of 
 it. I think, perhaps, that first of all you ought to see 
 her 3"ourself — you would get quite a new idea of what 
 she really is— you would be surprised, I assure you." 
 
 Mrs. Bagot shrugged her shoulders impatiently, 
 and there was silence for a minute or two. 
 
 And then, just as in a play, Trilby's " Milk below !" 
 was sounded at the door, and Trilby came into the 
 
190 
 
 little antechamber, and seeing strangers, was about 
 to turn back. She was dressed as a grisette, in her 
 Sunday gown and pretty white cap (for it was Kew- 
 year's Day), and looking her very best. 
 
 Taffy called out, " Come in. Trilby !" 
 
 And Trilby came into the studio. 
 
 As soon as she saw Mrs. Bagot's face she stopped 
 short — erect, her shoulders a little high, her mouth a 
 little open, her eyes wide with fright — and pale to the 
 lips — a pathetic, yet commanding, magnificent, and 
 most distinguished apparition, in spite of her humble 
 attire. 
 
 The little lady got up and walked straight to her, 
 and looked up into her face, that seemed to tower so. 
 Trilby breathed hard. 
 
 At length Mrs. Bagot said, in her high accents, " You 
 are Miss Trilby OTerrall ?" 
 
 " Oh yes — yes — I am Trilby OTerrall, and you are 
 Mrs. Bagot ; I can see that !" 
 
 A new tone had come into her large, deep, soft 
 voice, so tragic, so touching, so strangely in accord 
 with the whole aspect just then — so strangely in ac- 
 cord with the whole situation — that Taffy felt his 
 cheeks and lips turn cold, and his big spine thrill and 
 tickle all down his back. 
 
 " Oh yes ; you are very, very beautiful — there's no 
 doubt about that ! You wish to marry my son ?" 
 
 " I've refused to marry him nineteen times for his 
 own sake ; he will tell you so himself. I am not the 
 right person for him to marry. I know that. On 
 Christmas night he asked me for the twentieth time ; 
 he swore he would leave Paris next day forever if I 
 
191 
 
 refused him. I hadn't the courage. I was weak, you 
 see ! It was a dreadful mistake." 
 
 "Are you so fond of him?" 
 
 " Fond of him ? Aren't you V 
 
 " I'm his mother, my good girl !" 
 
 To this Trilby seemed to have nothing to say. 
 
 "You have just said yourself you are not a fit wife 
 for him. If you are ^ofond of him, will you ruin him 
 by marrying him ; drag him down ; prevent him from 
 getting on in life ; separate him from his sister, his 
 family, his friends?" 
 
 "'^FOND OP HIM? aren't TOnP^^ 
 
192 
 
 Trilby turned her miserable eyes to Taffy's miser- 
 able face, and said, " Will it really be all that, Taffy ?" 
 
 " Oh, Trilby, things have got all wrong, and can't be 
 righted ! I'm afraid it might be so. Dear Trilby — I 
 can't tell you what I feel — but I can't tell you lies, 
 you know !" 
 
 " Oh no— Taffy— you don't tell lies !" 
 
 Then Trilby began to tremble very much, and Taffy 
 tried to make her sit down, but she wouldn't. Mrs. 
 Bagot looked up into lier face, herself breathless with 
 keen suspense and cruel anxiety — almost imploring. 
 
 Trilby looked down at Mrs. Bagot very kindly, put 
 out her shaking hand, and said ; " Good-bye, Mrs. Bagot. 
 I will not marry your son, I promise you. I will 
 never see him again." 
 
 Mrs. Bagot caught and clasped her hand and tried 
 to kiss it, and said : " Don't go vet, my dear good 
 girl. I want to talk to you. I want to tell you how 
 deepl}^ I — " 
 
 "Good-bye, Mrs. Bagot," said Trilby, once more; 
 and, disengaging her hand, she walked swiftly out of 
 the room. 
 
 Mrs. Bagot seemed stupefied, and only half content 
 with her quick triumph. 
 
 " She will not marry your son, Mrs. Bagot. I only 
 wish to God she'd marry me /" 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Wynne !" said Mrs. Bagot, and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed the clergyman, with a feebly 
 satirical smile and a little cough and sniff that were 
 not sympathetic, " now if that could be arranged — and 
 I've no doubt there wouldn't be much opposition on 
 
193 
 
 the part of the lady " (here he made a little compli- 
 mentary bow), " it would be a very desirable thing 
 all round !" 
 
 " It's tremendously good of you, I'm sure — to inter- 
 est yourself in my humble affairs," said Taffy. " Look 
 here, sir — I'm not a great genius like your nephew — 
 and it doesn't much matter to any one but myself 
 what I make of my life — but I can assure you that if 
 Trilby's heart were set on me as it is on him, I would 
 gladly cast in my lot with hers for life. She's one 
 in a thousand. She's the one sinner that repenteth, 
 you know !" 
 
 " Ah, yes — to be sure ! — to be sure ! I know all 
 about that ; still, facts are facts, and the world is the 
 world, and we've got to live in it," said Mr. Bagot, 
 whose satirical smile had died away under the gleam 
 of Taffy's choleric blue eye. 
 
 Then said the good Taflfy, frowning down on the 
 parson (who looked mean and foolish, as people can 
 sometimes do even with right on their side) : " And 
 now, Mr. Bagot — I can't tell you how very keenly I 
 have suffered during this — a — this most painful inter- 
 view — on account of my very deep regard for Trilby 
 O'Ferrall. I congratulate you and your sister-in-law 
 on its complete success. I also feel very deeply for 
 your nephew. I'm not sure that he has not lost more 
 than he will gain by — a — by the — a — the success of 
 this — a — this interview, in short!" 
 
 Taffy's eloquence was exhausted, and his quick tem- 
 per was getting the better of him. 
 
 Then Mrs. Bagot, drying her eyes, came and took 
 his hand in a very charming and simple manner, and 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 said: "Mr. Wynne, I think I know what you are feel- 
 ing just now. You must try and make some allow- 
 ance for us. You will, I am sure, when we are gone, 
 and you have had time to think a little. As for that 
 noble and beautiful girl, I only wish that she were 
 such that my son could marry her — in her past life, I 
 mean. It is not her humble rank that would frighten 
 me ; fray believe that I am quite sincere in this — and 
 don't think too hardly of your friend's mother. Think 
 of all I shall have to go through with my poor son — 
 who is deeply in love — and no wonder ! and who has 
 won the love of such a woman as that ! and who can- 
 not see at present how fatal to him such a marriage 
 would be. I can see all the charm and believe in all 
 the goodness, in spite of all. And, oh, how beautiful 
 she is, and what a voice ! All that counts for so much, 
 doesn't it? I cannot tell you how I grieve for her. I 
 can make no amends — who could, for such a thing? 
 There are no amends, and I shall not even try. I will 
 only write and tell her all I think and feel. You will 
 forgive us, won't you ?" 
 
 And in the quick, impulsive warmth and grace and 
 sincerity of her manner as she said all this, Mrs. Bagot 
 was so absurdly like Little Billee that it touched big 
 TafiFy's heart, and he would have forgiven anything, 
 and there was nothing to forgive. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Bagot, there's no question of forgiveness. 
 Good heavens ! it is all so unfortunate, you know ! 
 Nobody's to blame that I can see. Good-bye, Mrs. 
 Bagot; good - bye, sir," and so saying, he saw them 
 down to their " remise," in which sat a singularly pret- 
 ty young lady of seventeen or so, pale and anxious, 
 
195 
 
 and so like Little Billee that it was quite funny, and 
 touched big Taffy's heart again. 
 
 When Trilby went out into the court-yard in the 
 Place St. Anatole des Arts, she saw Miss Bagot look- 
 ing out of the carriage window, and in the young 
 lady's face, as she caught her eye, an expression of 
 sweet surprise and sympathetic admiration, with hfted 
 
 "so LIKE LITTLE BILLEE " 
 
 eyebrows and parted lips — just such a look as she had 
 often o:ot from Little Billee ! She knew her for his 
 sister at once. It was a sharp pang. 
 
 She turned away, saying to herself : " Oh no ; I will 
 not separate him from his sister, his family, his friends ! 
 That would nemr do ! Thafs settled, anyhow !" 
 
 Feeling a little dazed, and wishing to think, she 
 turned up the Rue Yieille des Mauvais Ladres, which 
 was always deserted at this hour. It was empty but 
 
196 
 
 for a solitary figure sitting on a post, with its legs 
 dangling, its hands in its trousers-pockets, an inverted 
 pipe in its mouth, a tattered straw hat on the back of 
 its head, and a long gray coat down to its heels. It 
 was the Laird. 
 
 As soon as he saw her he jumped off his post and 
 came to her, saj^ing : " Oh, Trilby — what's it all about ? 
 I couldn't stand it ! I ran away ! Little Billee's moth- 
 er's there !" 
 
 " Yes, Sandy dear, I've just seen her." 
 
 " Well, what's up ?" 
 
 " I've promised her never to see Little Billee any 
 more. I was foolish enough to promise to marry him. 
 I refused many times these last three months, and then 
 he said he'd leave Paris and never come back, and so, 
 like a fool, I gave wa}^ I've offered to live with him 
 and take care of him and be his servant — to be every- 
 thing: he wished but his wife! But he wouldn't hear 
 of it. Dear, dear Little Billee ! he's an angel — and I'll 
 take precious good care no harm shall ever come to 
 him through me! I shall leave this hateful place and 
 go and live in the country : I suppose I must manage 
 to get through life somehow. I know of some poor 
 people who were once very fond of me, and I could 
 live with them and help them and keep myself. The 
 difficulty is about Jeannot. I thought it all out before 
 it came to this. I Avas well prepared, you see." 
 
 She smiled in a forlorn sort of way, with her upper 
 lip drawn tight against her teeth, as if some one were 
 pulling her back by the lobes of her ears. 
 
 " Oh! but Trilby — what shall we do without you? 
 Taffy and I, you know ! You've become one of us !" 
 
197 
 
 " Now how good and kind of you to say that !" ex- 
 claimed poor Trilby, her eyes filling. " Why, that's 
 just all I lived for, till all this happened. But it can't 
 be any more now, can it ? Everything is changed for 
 me — the very sky seems different. Ah ! Durien's little 
 song — '■Plaisir cV amour — cluKjnn (TmnouTP it's all 
 quite true, isn't it? I shall start immediately, and 
 take Jeannot with me, I think." 
 
 " But where do you think of going?" 
 
 " Ah ! I mayn't tell you that, Sandy dear — not for 
 a long time ! Think of all the trouble there'd be — 
 Well, there's no time to be lost. I must take the bull 
 by the horns." 
 
 She tried to laugh, and took him by his big side- 
 whiskers and kissed him on the eyes and mouth, and 
 her tears fell on his face. 
 
 Then, feeling unable to speak, she nodded farewell, 
 and walked quickly up the narrow winding street. 
 When she came to the first bend she turned round and 
 waved her hand, and kissed it two or three times, and 
 then disappeared. 
 
 The Laird stared for several minutes up the empty 
 thoroughfare — wretched, full of sorrow and compas- 
 sion. Then he filled himself another pipe and lit it, 
 and hitched himself on to another post, and sat there 
 dangling his leg's and kicking his heels, and waited for 
 the Bagots' cab to depart, that he might go up and 
 face the righteous wrath of Taffy like a man, and bear 
 up against his bitter reproaches for cowardice and de- 
 sertion before the foe. 
 
 Next morning Taffy received two letters: one, a 
 
198 
 
 very long one, was from Mrs. Bagot. He read it twice 
 over, and was forced to acknowledge that it was a 
 very good letter — the letter of a clever, warm-hearted 
 woman, but a woman also whose son was to her as 
 the very apple of her eye. One felt she was ready to 
 flay her dearest friend alive in order to make Little 
 Billee a pair of gloves out of the skin, if he wanted a 
 pair; but one also felt she would be genuinely sorry 
 for the friend. Taffy's own mother had been a little 
 like that, and he missed her every day of his life. 
 
 Full justice was done by Mrs. Bagot to all Trilby's 
 qualities of head and heart and person ; but at the 
 same time she pointed out, with all the cunning and 
 ingeniously casuistic logic of her sex, when it takes to 
 special pleading (even when it has right on its side), 
 what the consequences of such a marriage must in- 
 evitably be in a few years — even sooner ! The quick 
 disenchantment, the life-long regret, on both sides ! 
 
 He could not have found a word to controvert her 
 arguments, save perhaps in his own private belief that 
 Trilby and Little Billee were both exceptional people ; 
 and how could he hope to know Little Billee's nature 
 better than the boy's own mother ! 
 
 And if he had been the boy's elder brother in blood, 
 as he already was in art and affection, would he, should 
 he, could he have given his fraternal sanction to such 
 a match ? 
 
 Both as his friend and his brother he felt it was out 
 of the question. 
 
 The other letter was from Trilby, in her bold, care- 
 less handwriting, that sprawled all over the page, and 
 her occasionally imperfect spelling. It ran thus : 
 
" ' I MUST TAKE THE BULL BY THE HORNS ' " 
 
200 
 
 " My dear, dear Taffy,— This is to say good-bye. 
 I'm going away, to put an end to all this misery, for 
 which nobody's to blame but myself. 
 
 " The very moment after I'd said yes to Little Billee 
 I knew perfectly well what a stupid fool I was, and 
 I've been ashamed of myself ever since. I had a 
 miserable week, I can tell you. I knew how it would 
 all turn out. 
 
 " I am dreadfully unhappy, but not half so unhappy 
 as if I married him and he were ever to regret it and 
 be ashamed of me; and of course he would, really, 
 even if he didn't show it — good and kind as he is — an 
 angel ! 
 
 " Besides — of course I could never be a lady — how 
 could I ? — though I ought to have been one, I suppose. 
 But everything seems to have gone wrong with me, 
 though I never found it out before — and it can't be 
 righted ! 
 
 " Poor papa ! 
 
 "I am going away with Jeannot. I've been neglect- 
 ing him shamefully. I mean to make up for it all now. 
 
 " You mustn't try and find out where I am going ; 
 I know you won't if I beg you, nor any one else. It 
 would make everything so much harder for me. 
 
 " Angele knows ; she has promised me not to tell. 
 I should like to have a line from you very much.. If 
 you send it to her she will send it on to me. 
 
 " Dear Taffy, next to Little Billee, I love you and 
 the Laird better than any one else in the Avhole world. 
 I've never known real happiness till I met you. You 
 have changed me into another person — you and Sandy 
 and Little Billee. 
 
201 
 
 " Ob, it has been a jolly time, though it didn't last 
 long. It will have to do for me for life. So good-bye. 
 I shall never, never forget ; and remain, with dearest 
 love, 
 
 " Your ever faithful and most affectionate friend, 
 
 " Tkilby O'Ferkall. 
 
 "P.S. — When it has all blown over and settled 
 again, if it ever does, I shall come back to Paris, per- 
 haps, and see you again some day." 
 
 The good Taffy pondered deeply over this letter — 
 read it half a dozen times at least ; and then he kissed 
 it, and put it back into its envelope and locked it up. 
 
 He knew what very deep anguish underlay this 
 somewhat trivial expression of her sorrow. 
 
 He guessed how Trilby, so childishly impulsive and 
 demonstrative in the ordinary intercourse of friend- 
 ship, would be more reticent than most women in such 
 a case as this. 
 
 He wrote to her warmly, affectionately, at great 
 length, and sent the letter as she had told him. 
 
 The Laird also wrote a long letter full of tenderly 
 worded friendship and sincere regard. Both expressed 
 their hope and belief that they would soon see her 
 again, when the first bitterness of her grief would be 
 over, and that the old pleasant relations would be re- 
 newed. 
 
 And then, feeling wretched, they went and silently 
 lunched together at the Cafe de I'Odeon, where the 
 omelets were good and the wine wasn't blue. 
 
 Late that evening they sat together m the studio, 
 reading. They found they could not talk to each 
 
203 
 
 other very readily without Little Billee to listen — 
 three's company sometimes and two's none ! 
 
 Suddenly there was a tremendous getting up the 
 dark stairs outside in a violent hurry, and Little Billee 
 burst into the room like a small whirlwind — haggard, 
 out of breath, almost speechless at first with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 "Trilby? where is she? . . . what's become of her? 
 . . . She's run away ... oh ! She's written me such a 
 letter ! . . , We were to have been married ... at the 
 Embassy . . . my mother . . . she's been meddling; 
 and that cursed old ass . . . that beast . . . my uncle ! 
 , . . They've been here ! I know all about it. . . . 
 Why didn't you stick up for her ? . . ." 
 
 " I did ... as well as I could. Sandy couldn't stand 
 it, and cut." 
 
 " You stuck up for her . . . yoic — why, you agreed 
 with my mother that she oughtn't to marry me — you 
 — you false friend — you. . . . Why, she's an angel — 
 far too good for the lilies of me . . . you know slie is. 
 As ... as for her social position and all that, what de- 
 grading rot ! Her father was as much a gentleman as 
 mine . . . besides . . . what the devil do I care for 
 her father ? . . . it's her I want — her — her — her, I tell 
 you ... I can't live without her ... I must have 
 her hack — I must have her hack ... do you hear f 
 We were to have lived together at Barbizon ... all 
 our lives — and I was to have painted stunning pictures 
 . . . like those other fellows there. Who cares for 
 their '&0QA2X position, I should like to know . . . or that 
 of their wives? Damn social position! . . . we've 
 often said so — over and over again. An artist's life 
 
trilby! VVHEIIK IS SHE?'" 
 
 should be aroay from the world — above all that mean- 
 ness and paltriness ... all in his work. Social posi- 
 tion, indeed ! Over and over again we've said what 
 fetid, bestial rot it all was — a thing to make one sick 
 and shut one's self away from the world. . . . Why say 
 one thing and act another? . . . Love comes before 
 all — love levels all — love and art . . . and beauty — 
 before such beauty as Trilby's rank doesn't exist. 
 Such rank as mine, too ! Good God ! I'll never paint 
 another stroke till I've got her back . . . never, never, 
 I tell you— I can't— I won't ! . . ." 
 
 And so the poor boy went on, tearing and raving 
 about in his rampage, knocking over chairs and easels, 
 stammering and shrieking, mad with excitement. 
 
204 
 
 Tliey tried to reason with him, to make him Hsten, 
 to point out that it was not her social position alone 
 that unfitted her to be his wife and the mother of his 
 children, etc. 
 
 It was no good. He grew more and more uncon- 
 trollable, became almost unintelligible, he stammered 
 so — a pitiable sight and pitiable to hear. 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! good heavens ! are you so precious im- 
 maculate, you two, that you should throw stones at 
 poor Trilby ! What a shame, what a hideous shame 
 it is that there should be one law for the woman and 
 another for the man ! . . . poor weak women — poor, 
 soft, affectionate things that beasts of men are always 
 running after and pestering and ruining and tramp- 
 ling underfoot . . . Oh ! oh ! it makes me sick — it 
 makes me sick !" And finally he gasped and screamed 
 and fell down in a fit on the floor. 
 
 The doctor was sent for ; Taffy went in a cab to the 
 Hotel de Lille et d' Albion to fetch his mother; and 
 poor Little Billee, quite unconscious, was undressed by 
 Sandy and Madame Vinard and put into the Laird's bed. 
 
 The doctor came, and nut long after Mrs. Bagot and 
 her daughter. It was a serious case. Another doctor 
 was called in. Beds were got and made up in the 
 studio for the two grief-stricken ladies, and thus closed 
 the eve of what was to have been poor Little Billee's 
 wedding-day, it seems. 
 
 Little Billee's attack appears to have been a kind of 
 epileptic seizure. It ended in brain-fever and other 
 complications — a long and tedious illness. It was 
 many weeks before he was out of danger, and his con- 
 valescence was lono- and tedious too. 
 
205 
 
 His nature seemed changed. He lay languid and 
 listless — never even mentioned Trilby, except once to 
 ask if she had come back, and if any one knew where 
 she was, and if she had been written to. 
 
 She had not, it appears. Mrs. Bagot had thought 
 it was better not, and Taffy and the Laird agreed with 
 her that no good could 
 come of writing. 
 
 Mrs. Bagot felt bit- 
 terly against the wom- 
 an who had been the 
 cause of all this trouble, 
 and bitterly against 
 herself for her injus- 
 tice. It was an unhap- 
 py time for everybody. 
 
 There was more un- 
 happiness still to come. 
 
 One day in February 
 Madame Angele Boisse 
 called on Taffy and the 
 Laird in the temporary 
 studio where they 
 worked. She was in 
 terrible tribulation. 
 
 Trilby's little brother had died of scarlet - fever 
 and was buried, and Trilby had left her hiding- 
 place the day after the funeral and had never come 
 back, and this was a week ago. She and Jeannot 
 had been living at a village called Yibraye, in la 
 Sarthe, lodging with some poor people she knew — 
 
 LA S(EFR DE LITREBILI 
 
206 
 
 she washing and working with her needle till her 
 brother fell ill. 
 
 She had never left his bedside for a moment, night 
 or day, and when he died her grief was so terrible 
 that people thought she would go out of her mind ; 
 and the day after he w^as buried she was not to be 
 found anywhere — she had disappeared, taking noth- 
 ing with her, not even her clothes — simply vanished 
 and left no sign, no message of any kind. 
 
 All the ponds had been searched — all the wells, and 
 the small stream that flows through Yibraye — and the 
 old forest. 
 
 Taffy went to Vibraye, cross-examined everybody 
 he could, communicated with the Paris police, but 
 with no result, and every afternoon, with a beating 
 heart, he went to the Morgue. . . . 
 
 The news was of course kept from Little Billee. 
 There was no difficulty about tliis. He never asked a 
 question, hardly ever spoke. 
 
 When he first got up and was carried into the studio 
 he asked for his picture " The Pitcher Goes to the 
 Well," and looked at it for a while, and then shrugged 
 his shoulders and laughed— a miserable sort of laugh, 
 painful to hear — the laugh of a cold old man, who 
 laughs so as not to cry ! Then he looked at his mother 
 and sister, and saw the sad havoc that grief and anxiety 
 had wrought in them. 
 
 It seemed to him, as in a bad dream, that he had 
 been mad for many years — a cause of endless sicken- 
 ing terror and distress; and that his poor weak wan- 
 dering wits had come back at last, bringing in their 
 
207 
 
 train cruel remorse, and the remembrance of all the 
 patient love and kindness that had been lavished on 
 him for many years! His sweet sister — his dear, long- 
 suffering mother ! what had really happened to make 
 them look like this ? 
 
 And taking them both in his feeble arms, he fell 
 a-weeping, quite desperately and for a long time. 
 
 And when his w'eeping-fit was over, when he had 
 quite wept himself out, he fell asleep. 
 
 And when he aw^oke he was conscious that another 
 sad thing had happened to him, and that for some 
 
 HE FELL A-WEEPING, QUITE DESPERATELY 
 
208 
 
 mysterious cause bis power of loving had not come 
 back with his wandering wits — had been left behind — 
 and it seemed to hira that it was gone for ever and 
 ever — would never come back again — not even his love 
 for his mother and sister, not even his love for Trilby 
 — where all that had once been was a void, a gap, a 
 blankness. . . . 
 
 Trulj^, if Trilby had suffered much, she had also 
 been the innocent cause of terrible suffering. Poor 
 Mrs. Bagot, in her heart, could not forgive her. 
 
 I feel this is getting to be quite a sad story, and 
 that it is high time to cut this part of it short. 
 
 As the warmer weather came, and Little Billee got 
 stronger, the studio became more pleasant. The ladies' 
 beds were removed to another studio on the next land- 
 ing, which was vacant, and the friends came to see 
 Little Billee, and make it more lively for him and his 
 sister. 
 
 As for Taffy and the Laird, they had already long 
 been to Mrs. Bagot as a pair of crutches, without 
 whose invaluable help she could never have held her- 
 self upright to pick her way in all this maze of trouble. 
 
 Then M. Carrell came every day to chat with his fa- 
 vorite pupil and gladden Mrs. Bagot's heart. And also 
 Durien, Carnegie, Petrolicoconose, Vincent, Antony, 
 Lorrimer, Dodor, and 1' Zouzou ; Mrs. Bagot thought 
 the last two irresistible, when she had once been satis- 
 fied that they were " gentlemen," in spite of appear- 
 ances. And, indeed, they showed themselves to great 
 advantage ; and though they were so much the oppo- 
 site to Little Billee in everything, she felt almost ma- 
 ternal towards them, and gave them innocent, good, 
 
209 
 
 motherly advice, which they swallowed avec atteTh- 
 drissement, not even stealing a look at each other. 
 And they held Mrs. Bagot's wool, and listened to Miss 
 Bagot's sacred music with upturned pious eyes, and 
 mealy mouths that butter wouldn't melt in ! 
 
 It is good to be a soldier and a detrimental ; you 
 touch the hearts of women and charm them — old and 
 young, high or low (excepting, perhaps, a few worldly 
 mothers of marriageable daughters). They take the 
 sticking of your tongue in the cheek for the wearing 
 of your heart on the sleeve. 
 
 Indeed, good women all over the world, and ever 
 since it began, have loved to be bamboozled by these 
 genial, roistering dare-devils, who haven't got a penny 
 to bless themselves with (which is so touching), and are 
 supposed to carry their lives in their hands, even in 
 piping times of peace. Nay, even a few rare had 
 women sometimes, such women as the best and wisest 
 of us are often ready to sell our souls for ! 
 
 " A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 
 A feather of the blue, 
 A doublet of the Lincoln green — 
 No more of me you knew, 
 
 My love ! 
 No more of me you knew. . . ." 
 
 As if that wasn't enough, and to spare! 
 
 Little Billee could hardly realize that these two po- 
 lite and gentle and sympathetic sons of Mars were the 
 lively grigs who had made themselves so pleasant all 
 round, and in such a singular manner, on the top of 
 that St. Cloud omnibus; and he admired how they 
 added hypocrisy to their other crimes ! 
 
 14 
 
210 
 
 Svengali had gone back to Germany, it seemed, 
 with his pockets full of napoleons and big Havana 
 cigars, and wrapped in an immense fur-lined coat, 
 which he meant to wear all through the summer. 
 But little Gecko often came with his violin and made 
 lovely music, and that seemed to do Little Billee more 
 good than anything else. 
 
 It made him realize in his brain all the love he 
 could no longer feel in his heart. The sweet melo- 
 dic phrase, rendered by a master, was as wholesome, 
 refreshing balm to him while it lasted — or as manna 
 in the wilderness. It was the one good thing with- 
 in his reach, never to be taken from him as long as 
 his ear-drums remained and he could hear a master 
 play. 
 
 Poor Gecko treated the two English ladies de has 
 en haut as if they had been goddesses, even when they 
 accompanied him on the piano ! He begged their 
 pardon for every wrong note they struck, and adopt- 
 ed their "tempi" — that is the proper technical term, 
 I believe — and turned scherzos and allegrettos into 
 funeral dirges to please them; and agreed with them, 
 poor little traitor, that it all sounded much better like 
 that ! 
 
 O Beethoven ! O Mozart ! did you turn in yonr 
 graves ? 
 
 Then, on fine afternoons, Little Billee was taken for 
 drives to the Bois de Boulogne with his mother and 
 sister in an open fly, and generally Taffy as a fourth ; 
 to Passy, Auteuil, Boulogne, St. Cloud, Meudon — 
 there are many charming places within an easy drive 
 of Paris. 
 
313 
 
 And sometimes Taffy or the Laird ^Tould escort Mrs. 
 and Miss Bagot to the Luxembourg Gallery, the Lou- 
 vre, the Palais Royal — to the Comedie Franyaise once 
 or twice ; and on Sundays, now and then, to the Eng- 
 lish chapel in the Rue Marboeuf . It was all very pleas- 
 ant ; and Miss Bagot looks back on the days of her 
 brother's convalescence as among the happiest in her 
 life. 
 
 And they would all five dine together in the studio, 
 with Madame Yinard to wait, and her mother (a cor- 
 don bleu) for cook ; and the whole aspect of the place 
 was changed and made fragrant, sweet, and charming 
 by all this new feminine invasion and occupation. 
 
 And what is sweeter to watch than the dawn and 
 growth of love's young dream, when strength and 
 beauty meet together by the couch of a beloved in- 
 valid ? 
 
 Of course the sympathetic reader will foresee how 
 readily the stalwart Taffy fell a victim to the charms 
 of his friend's sweet sister, and how she grew to re- 
 turn his more than brotherly regard ! and how, one 
 lovely evening, just as March was going out like a 
 lamb (to make room for the first of April), little Bil- 
 lee joined their hands together, and gave them his 
 brotherly blessing ! 
 
 As a matter of fact, however, nothing of this kind 
 happened. Nothing ever happens but the ti^^^foreseen. 
 Pazienza ! 
 
 Then at length one day — it was a fine, sunny, show- 
 ery day in April, by-the-bye, and the big studio win- 
 dow was open at the top and let in a pleasant breeze 
 
213 
 
 from the northwest, just as when our little story began 
 — a railway omnibus drew up at the porte cochere in 
 the Place St. Anatole des Arts, and carried away to 
 the station of the Chemin de Fer du Nord Little Billee 
 and his mother and sister, and all their belongings 
 (the famous picture had gone before) ; and Taffy and 
 the Laird rode with them, their faces very long, to see 
 the last of the dear people, and of the train that was 
 to bear them away from Paris ; and Little Billee, with 
 his quick, prehensile, aesthetic eye, took many a long 
 and wistful parting gaze at many a French thing he 
 loved, from the gray towers of Notre Dame down- 
 ward — Heaven only knew when he might see them 
 again ! — so he tried to get their aspect well by heart, 
 that he might have the better store of beloved shape 
 and color memories to chew the cud of when his lost 
 powers of loving and remembering clearly should come 
 back, and he lay awake at night and listened to the 
 wash of the Atlantic along the beautiful red sandstone 
 coast at home. 
 
 He had a faint hope that he should feel sorry at 
 parting with Taffy and the Laird. 
 
 But when the time came for saying good-bye he 
 couldn't feel sorry in the least, for all he tried and 
 strained so hard ! 
 
 So he thanked them so earnestly and profusely for 
 all their kindness and patience and sympathy (as did 
 also his mother and sister) that their hearts were too 
 full to speak, and their manner was quite gruff — it 
 was a way they had when they were deeply moved 
 and didn't want to show it. 
 
 And as he gazed out of the carriage window at their 
 
214 
 
 two forlorn figures looking after him when the train 
 steamed out of the station, his sorrow at not feeling 
 sorry made him look so haggard and so woe-begone 
 that they could scarcely bear the sight of him depart- 
 ing without them, and almost felt as if they must fol- 
 low by the next train, and go and cheer him up in 
 Devonshire, and themselves too. 
 
 They did not yield to this amiable weakness. Sor- 
 rowfully, arm in arm, with trailing umbrellas, they 
 recrossed the river, and found their way to the Cafe 
 de rOdeon, where they ate many omelets in silence, 
 and dejectedly drank of the best they could get, and 
 were very sad indeed. 
 
 Nearly five years have elapsed since we bade fare- 
 well and au revoir to Taffy and the Laird at the Paris 
 station of the Chemin de Fer du Nord, and wished 
 Little Billee and his mother and sister Godspeed on 
 their way to Devonshire, where the poor sufferer w^as 
 to rest and lie fallow for a few months, and recruit 
 his lost strength and energy, that he might follow up 
 his first and well-deserved success, which perhaps con- 
 tributed just a little to his recovery. 
 
 Many of my readers will remember his splendid 
 debut at the Eoyal Academy in Trafalgar Square 
 with that now so famous canvas " The Pitcher Goes 
 to the Well," and how it was sold three times over on 
 the morning of the private view, the third time for a 
 thousand pounds — just five times what he got for it 
 

 
 "sorrowfully, arm in arm" 
 
216 
 
 himself. And that was thought a large sum in those 
 days for a beginner's picture, two feet by four. 
 
 I am well aware that such a vulgar test is no crite- 
 rion whatever of a picture's real merit. But this pict- 
 ure is well known to all the world by this time, and 
 sold only last year at Christy's (more than thirty-six 
 years after it was painted) for three thousand pounds. 
 
 Thirty-six years ! That goes a long way to redeem 
 even three thousand pounds of all their cumulative 
 vulgarity. 
 
 "The Pitcher" is now in the National Gallery, 
 with that other canvas by the same hand, " The Moon- 
 Dial." There they hang together for all who care to 
 see them, his first and his last — the blossom and the 
 fruit. 
 
 He had not long to live himself, and it was his good- 
 fortune, so rare among those whose work is destined 
 to live forever, that he succeeded at his first go-off. 
 
 And his success was of the best and most flattering 
 kind. 
 
 It began high up, where it should, among the mas- 
 ters of his own craft. But his fame filtered quickly 
 down to those immediately beneath, and through 
 these to wider circles. And there was quite enough 
 of opposition and vilification and coarse abuse of him 
 to clear it of any suspicion of cheapness or evanes- 
 cence. What better antiseptic can there be than the 
 Philistine's deep hate ? What sweeter, fresher, whole- 
 somer music than the sound of his voice when he doth 
 so furiously rage ? 
 
 Yes! That is "good production." As SvengaU 
 would have said, " C'est un cri du coeur !" 
 
217 
 
 And then, when popular acclaim brings the great 
 dealers and the big cheques, up rises the printed howl 
 of the duffer, the disappointed one, the " wounded 
 thing with an angry cry " — the prosperous and happy 
 bagman that should have been, who has given up all 
 for art, and finds he can't paint and make himself a 
 name, after all, and never will, so falls to writing 
 about those who can — and what writing ! 
 
 To write in hissing dispraise of our more successful 
 fellow-craftsman, and of those who admire him ! that 
 is not a clean or pretty trade. It seems, alas ! an easy 
 one, and it gives pleasure to so many. It does not 
 even want good grammar. But it pays — well enough 
 even to start and run a magazine with, instead of 
 scholarship and taste and talent ! humor, sense, wit, 
 and wisdom ! It is something like the purveying of 
 pornographic pictures : some of us look at them and 
 laugh, and even buy. To be a purchaser is bad 
 enough ; but to be the purveyor thereof — ugh ! 
 
 A poor devil of a cracked soprano (are there such 
 people still ?) who has been turned out of the Pope's 
 choir because he can't sing in tune, after all! — think 
 of him yelling and squeaking his treble rage at Sant- 
 ley — Sims Reeves — Lablache ! 
 
 Poor, lost, beardless nondescript ! why not fly to 
 other climes, where at least thou might'st hide from 
 us thy woful crack, and keep thy miserable secret to 
 thyself! Are there no harems still left in Stamboul 
 for the likes of thee to sweep and clean, no women's 
 beds to make and slops to empty, and doors and win- 
 dows to bar — and tales to carry, and the pasha's con- 
 fidence and favor and protection to win ? Even that 
 
218 
 
 is a better trade than pandering for hire to the basest 
 instinct of all — the dirty pleasure we feel (some of us) 
 in seeing mud and dead cats and rotten eggs flung at 
 those we cannot but admire — and secretly envy ! 
 
 All of which eloquence means that Little Billee was 
 pitched into right and left, as well as overpraised. And 
 it all rolled off him like water off a duck's back, both 
 praise and blame. 
 
 It was a happy summer for Mrs. Bagot, a sweet 
 compensation for all the anguish of the winter that 
 had gone before, with her two beloved children to- 
 gether under her wing, and all the world (for her) 
 ringing with the praise of her boy, the apple of her 
 eye, so providentially rescued from the very jaws of 
 death, and from other dangers almost as terrible to 
 her tiercel}' jealous maternal heart. 
 
 And his affection for her seemed to groAV with his 
 returning health ; but, alas ! he was never again to be 
 quite the same light-hearted, innocent, expansive lad 
 he had been before that fatal year spent in Paris. 
 
 One chapter of his life was closed, never to be re- 
 opened, never to be spoken of again by him to her, by 
 her to him. She could neither forgive nor forget. She 
 could but be silent. 
 
 Otherwise he was pleasant and sweet to live with, 
 and everything was done to make his life at home as 
 sweet and pleasant as a loving mother could — as could 
 a most charming sister — and others' sisters who were 
 charming too, and much disposed to worship at the 
 shrine of this young celebrity, who woke up one 
 morning in their little village to find himself famous. 
 
219 
 
 and bore his blushing honors so meekly. And among 
 them the vicar's daughter, his sister's friend and co- 
 teacher at the Sunday - school, " a simple, pure, and 
 pious maiden of gentle birth," everything he once 
 thought a young lady should be ; and her name it 
 was Alice, and she was sweet, and her hair was brown 
 — as brown ! . . . 
 
 And if he no longer found the simple country pleas- 
 ures, the junketings and picnics, the garden-parties 
 and innocent little musical evenings, quite so exciting 
 as of old, he never showed it. 
 
 Indeed, there was much that he did not show, and 
 that his mother and sister tried in vain to guess — many 
 things. 
 
 And among them one thing that constantly preoc- 
 cupied and distressed him — the numbness of his affec- 
 tions. He could be as easily demonstrative to his 
 mother and sister as though nothing had ever hap- 
 pened to him — from the mere force of a sweet old 
 habit — even more so, out of sheer gratitude and com- 
 punction. 
 
 But, alas! he feit that in his heart he could no 
 longer care for them in the least ! — nor for Taffy, nor 
 the Laird, nor for himself ; not even for Trilby, of 
 whom he constantly thought, but without emotion ; 
 and of whose strange disappearance he had been told, 
 and the story had been confirmed in all its details by 
 Angele Boisse, to whom he had written. 
 
 It was as though some part of his brain where his 
 affections were seated had been paralyzed, while all 
 the rest of it was as keen and as active as ever. He 
 felt like some poor live bird or beast or reptile, a part 
 
220 
 
 of whose cerebrum (or cerebellum, or whatever it is) 
 had been dug out by the vivisector for experimental 
 purposes; and the strongest emotional feeling he 
 seemed capable of was his anxiety and alarm about 
 this curious symptom, and his concern as to Avhether 
 he ought to mention it or not. 
 
 He did not do so, for fear of causing distress, hoping 
 that it would pass away in time, and redoubled his ca- 
 resses to his mother and sister, and clung to them more 
 than ever ; and became more considerate of others in 
 manner, word, and deed than he had ever been before, 
 as though by constantly assuming the virtue he had 
 no longer he would gradually coax it back again. 
 There was no trouble he would not take to give pleas- 
 ure to the humblest. 
 
 Also, his vanity about himself had become as noth- 
 ing, and he missed it almost as much as his affec- 
 tion. 
 
 Yet he told himself over and over again that he was 
 a great artist, and that he would spare no pains to 
 make himself a greater. But that was no merit of his 
 own. 
 
 24-2 = 4, also 2x 2=4 ; that peculiarity was no rea- 
 son why 4 should be conceited ; for what was 4 but 
 a result, either way ? 
 
 "Well, he was like 4 — just an inevitable result of cir- 
 cumstances over which he had no control — a mere 
 product or sum ; and though he meant to make him- 
 self as big a 4 as he could (to cultivate his peculiar 
 fourness), he could no longer feel the old conceit and 
 self-complacency ; and they had been a joy, and it was 
 hard to do without them. 
 
321 
 
 At the bottom of it all was a vague, disquieting un- 
 happiness, a constant fidget. 
 
 And it seemed to him, and much to his distress, 
 that such mild unhappiness would be the greatest he 
 could ever feel henceforward — but that, such as it was, 
 it would never leave him, and that his moral existence 
 would be for evermore one long, gray, gloomy blank — 
 the glimmer of twilight — never glad, confident morn- 
 ing again ! 
 
 So much for Little Billee's convalescence. 
 
 Then one day in the late autumn he spread his wings 
 and flew away to London, which was very ready with 
 open arms to welcome William Bagot, the already fa- 
 mous painter, alias Little Billee 1 
 
part jfiftb 
 
 LITTLE BILLEE 
 
 An Interlude 
 
 'Then tlie mortal coldness of the Soul like death itself conies 
 
 down ; 
 It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ; 
 That heavy ehill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, 
 And, though the eye may sparlile yet, 'tis where the ice ap- 
 pears. 
 
 "Though wit may flash from fluent lips, ami mirth distract the 
 breast, 
 Through midnight liours that yield no more their former hope 
 
 of rest: 
 'Tis but as ivy leaves around a ruined turret wreathe, 
 All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray be- 
 neatli." 
 
 When Taffy and the Laird went back to the stu- 
 dio iu the Phice St. Anatole des Arts, and resumed 
 their ordinary Hfe there, it was with a sense of deso- 
 lation and dull bereavement beyond anything they 
 could have imagined ; and this did not seem to lessen 
 as the time wore on. 
 
 They reaHzed for the first time how keen and pen- 
 etrating and un intermittent had been the charm of 
 those two central figures — Trilby and Little Billee — 
 and how hard it was to live without them, after such 
 intimacy as had been theirs. 
 
" Oh, it has been a jolly time, though it didn't last 
 long !" So Trilby had written in her farewell letter 
 to Taffy ; and these words were true for Taffy and 
 the Laird as well as for her. 
 
 And that is the worst of those dear people who 
 have charm : they are so terrible to do without, when 
 once you have got accustomed to them and all their 
 ways. 
 
 And when, besides being charming, they are sim- 
 ple, clever, affectionate, constant, and sincere, like 
 Trilby and Little ]>illee ! Then the lamentable hole 
 their disappearance makes is not to be filled up ! And 
 when they are full of genius, like Little Billee — and 
 like Trilby, funny without being vulgar ! For so she 
 always seemed to the Laird and Taffy, even in French 
 (in spite of her Gallic audacities of thought, speech, 
 and gesture). 
 
 All seemed to have suffered change. The very 
 boxing and fencing were gone through perfunctorily, 
 for mere health's sake ; and a thin layer of adipose 
 deposit began to soften the outlines of the hills and 
 dales on Taffy's mighty forearm. 
 
 Dodor and V Zouzou no longer came so often, now 
 that the charming Little liillee and his charming 
 mother and still more charming sister had goneaway — 
 nor Carnegie, nor Antony, nor Lorrimer, nor Vincent, 
 nor the Greek. Gecko never came at all. Even Sven- 
 gali was missed, little as he had been liked. It is a 
 dismal and sulky looking piece of furniture, a grand- 
 piano that nobody ever plays — Avith all its sound and 
 its souvenirs locked up inside — a kind of mausoleum ! 
 a lop-sided coffin — trestles and all ! 
 
234 
 
 So it went back to London by the "little quick- 
 ness," just as it had come! 
 
 Thus Taffy and the Laird grew quite sad and raopy, 
 and lunched at the Cafe de TOdeon every day — till 
 the goodness of the omelets palled, and the redness 
 of the wine there got on their nerves and into their 
 heads and faces, and made them sleepy till dinner- 
 time. And then, waking up, they dressed respecta- 
 bly, and dined expensively, "like gentlemen," in the 
 Palais Royal, or the Passage Choiseul, or the Passage 
 des Panoramas — for three francs, three francs fifty, 
 even five francs a head, and half a franc to the wait- 
 er ! — and went to the theatre almost every night, on 
 that side of the water — and more often than not they 
 took a cab home, each smoking a Panatella, which 
 costs twenty-five centimes — five sous — 2|^t7. 
 
 Then they feebly drifted into quite decent society — 
 like Lorrimer and Carnegie — with dress -coats and 
 white ties on, and their hair parted in the middle and 
 down the back of the head, and brought over the ears 
 in a bunch at each side, as was the English fashion in 
 those days ; and subscribed to Galignani's Messenger ; 
 and had themselves proposed and seconded for the 
 Cercle Anglais in the Rue Sainte-n'y touche, a circle 
 of British philistines of the very deepest dye ; and 
 went to hear divine service on Sunday mornings in 
 the Rue Marboeuf ! 
 
 Indeed, by the end of the summer they had sunk 
 into such depths of demoralization that they felt they 
 must really have a change ; and decided on giving up 
 the studio in the Place St. Anatole des Arts, and leav- 
 ing- Paris for good : and going to settle for the winter 
 
DEMORALIZATION 
 
 in Diisseldorf, which is a very pleasant place for Eng- 
 lish painters who do not wish to overwork themselves 
 — as the Laird well knew, having spent a year there. 
 
 It ended in Taffy's going to Antwerp for the Ker- 
 messe, to paint the Flemish drunkard of our time 
 just as he really is ; and the Laird's going to Spain, 
 so that he might study toreadors from the life. 
 
 I may as well state here that the Laird's toreador 
 pictures, which had had quite a vogue in Scotland 
 as long as he had been content to paint them in 
 the Place St. Anatole des Arts, quite ceased to please 
 (or sell) after he had been to Seville and Madrid ; so 
 he took to painting Roman cardinals and Neapolitan 
 
 15 
 
226 
 
 pifferari from the depths of his consciousness — and 
 was so successful that he made up his mind he would 
 never spoil his market by going to Italy ! 
 
 So he went and painted his cardinals and his piffe- 
 rari in Algiers, and Taffy joined him there, and paint- 
 ed Algerian Jews — just as they really are (and didn't 
 sell them) ; and then they spent a year in Munich, 
 and then a year in Diisseldorf, and a winter in Cairo, 
 and so on. 
 
 And all this time Taffy, who took everything au 
 grand serieux — especially the claims and obligations 
 of friendship — corresponded regularly with Little 
 Billee, who wrote him long and amusing letters back 
 again, and had plenty to say about his life in London 
 — which was a series of triumphs, artistic and social 
 - — and you would have thought from his letters, mod- 
 est though they were, that no happier 3'oung man, or 
 more elate, was to be found anywhere in the world. 
 
 It was a good time in England, just then, for young 
 artists of promise ; a time of evolution, revolution, 
 claange, and development — of the founding of new 
 schools and the crumbling away of old ones — a keen 
 struggle for existence — a surviving of the fit — a prep- 
 aration, let us hope, for the ultimate survival of the 
 fittest. 
 
 And among the many glories of this particular pe- 
 riod two names stand out very conspicuously — for the 
 immediate and (so far) lasting fame their bearers 
 achieved, and the wide influence they exerted, and 
 continue to exert still. 
 
 The world will not easily forget Frederic Walker 
 and William Bagot, those two singularly gifted boj^s, 
 
227 
 
 whom it soon became the fashion to bracket together, 
 to compare and to contrast, as one compares and con- 
 trasts Thackeray and Dickens, Carlyle and Macaulay, 
 Tennyson and Browning — a futile though pleasant 
 practice, of which the temptations seem irresistible ! 
 
 Yet why compare the lily and the rose ? 
 
 These two young masters had the genius and the 
 luck to be the progenitors of much of the best art- 
 work that has been done in England during the last 
 thirty years, in oils, in 
 water-color, in black and 
 white. 
 
 They were both essen- 
 tially English and of 
 their own time ; both ab- 
 solutely original, receiv- 
 ing their impressions 
 straight from nature it- 
 self ; uninfluenced by any 
 school, ancient or mod- 
 ern, they founded schools 
 instead of following any, 
 and each was a law unto 
 himself, and a law-giver 
 unto many others. 
 
 Both were equally great in whatever they attempted 
 — landscape, figures, birds, beasts, or fishes. Who does 
 not remember the fish-monger's shop by F. "Walker, or 
 W. Bagot's little piebald piglings, and their venerable 
 black mother, and their immense, fat, wallowing pink 
 papa ? An ineffable charm of poetry and refinement, 
 of pathos and sympathy and delicate humor combined, 
 
 FRED WALKER 
 
328 
 
 an incomparable ease and grace and felicity of work- 
 manship belong to each ; and yet in their work are 
 they not as wide apart as the poles ; each complete in 
 himself and yet a complement to the other ? 
 
 And, oddly enough, they were both singularly alike 
 in aspect — both small and slight, though beautifully 
 made, with tiny hands and feet ; always arrayed as the 
 lilies of the field, for all they toiled and spun so ar- 
 duously ; both had regularly featured faces of a noble 
 cast and most winning character ; both had the best 
 and simplest manners in the world, and a way of get- 
 ting themselves much and quicldy and permanently 
 liked. . . . 
 
 Que la terre leur soit legere ! 
 
 And who can say that the fame of one is greater 
 than the other's ! 
 
 Their pinnacles are twin, I venture to believe — of 
 just an equal height and width and thickness, like their 
 bodies in this life ; but unlike their frail bodies in one 
 respect : no taller pinnacles are to be seen, methinks, 
 in all the garden of the deathless dead painters of our 
 time, and none more built to last ! 
 
 But it is not with the art of Little Billee, nor with 
 his fame as a painter, that we are chiefly concerned in 
 this unpretending little tale, except in so far as they 
 have some bearing on his character and his fate, 
 
 " I should like to know the detailed history of the 
 Englishman's first love, and how he lost his inno- 
 cence !" 
 
 " Ask him !" 
 
 " Ask him yourself !" 
 
239 
 
 Thus Papelard and Boucliardy, on the morning of 
 Little Billee's first appearance at Carrel's studio, in 
 the Rue des Potirons St. Michel. 
 
 And that is the question the present scribe is doing 
 his little best to answer. 
 
 A good-looking, famous, well-bred, and well-dressed 
 youth finds that London Society opens its doors very 
 readily ; he hasn't long to knock ; and it would be 
 difficult to find a youth more fortunately situated, 
 handsomer, more famous, better dressed or better bred, 
 more seemingly happy and successful, with more at- 
 tractive qualities and more condonable faults, than 
 Little Billee, as Taffy and the Laird found him when 
 they came to London after their four or five years in 
 foreign parts — their Wanderjahr. 
 
 He had a fine studio and a handsome suite of rooms 
 in Fitzroy Square. Beautiful specimens of his unfin- 
 ished work, endless studies, hung on liis studio walls. 
 Everything else was as nice as it could be — the furni- 
 ture, the bibelots, and bric-a-brac, the artistic foreign 
 and Eastern knick-knacks and draperies and hangings 
 and curtains and rugs — the semi-grand piano by Col- 
 lard & Collard. 
 
 That immortal canvas, the "Moon-Dial" (just be- 
 gun, and already commissioned by Moses Lyon, the 
 famous picture-dealer), lay on his easel. 
 
 No man worked harder and with teeth more clinched 
 than Little Billee when he was at work — none rested 
 or played more discreetly when it was time to rest or 
 play. 
 
 The glass on his mantel-piece was full of cards of 
 
230 
 
 invitation, reminders, pretty mauve and pink and lilac- 
 scented notes ; nor were coronets wanting on many of 
 these hospitable little missives. He had quite over- 
 come his fan- 
 cied aversion 
 for bloated 
 dukes and 
 lords and the 
 rest (we all do 
 sooner or lat- 
 er, if things go 
 well with us) ; 
 especially for 
 their wives 
 and sisters and 
 daughters and 
 female cous- 
 ins; even their 
 mothers and 
 aunts. In 
 point of fact, and in spite of his 
 tender years, he was in some 
 danger (for his art) of developing 
 into that type so adored by sym- 
 pathetic women who Imven't got 
 much to do : the friend, the tame 
 cat, the platonic lover (with many 
 loves) — the squire of dames, the 
 trusty one, of whom husbands 
 and brothers have no fear! — 
 the delicate, harmless dilettante 
 of Eros — the dainty shepherd 
 
 PLATONIC LOVE 
 
231 
 
 who dwells "dans le pays du tendre!" — and stops 
 there ! 
 
 The woman flatters and the man confides — and 
 there is no danger whatever, I'm told — and I am glad ! 
 
 One man loves his fiddle (or, alas ! his neighbor's 
 sometimes) for all the melodies he can wake from it — 
 it is but a selfish love ! 
 
 Another, who is no fiddler, may love a fiddle too ; 
 for its symmetry, its neatness, its color — its deli- 
 cate grainings, the lovely lines and curves of its back 
 and front — for its own sake, so to speak. He may 
 have a whole galleryful of fiddles to love in this in- 
 nocent way — a harem ! — and yet not know a single 
 note of music, or even care to hear one. He will dust 
 them and stroke them, and take them down and try 
 to put them in tune — pizzicato!— and put them back 
 again, and call them ever such sweet little pet names : 
 viol, viola, viola d'amore, viol di gamba, violino mio! 
 and breathe his little troubles into them, and they 
 will give back inaudible little murmurs in sympathetic 
 response, like a damp ^olian harp ; but he will never 
 draw a bow across the strings, nor wake a single chord 
 —or discord ! 
 
 And who shall say he is not wise in his generation? 
 It is but an old-fashioned philistine notion that fiddles 
 were only made to be played on — the fiddles them- 
 selves are beginning to resent it ; and rightly, I wot ! 
 
 In this harmless fashion Little Billee was friends 
 with more than one fine lady de par le monde. 
 
 Indeed, he had been reproached by his more bo- 
 hemian brothers of the brush for being something of 
 a tuft-hunter — most unjustly. But nothing gives such 
 
232 
 
 keen offence to our unsuccessful brother, bohemian oi 
 bourgeois, as our sudden intimacy with the so-called 
 great, the little lords and ladies of this little world ! 
 Kot even our fame and success, and all the joy and 
 pride they bring us, are so hard to condone — so im- 
 bittering, so humiliating, to the jealous fraternal 
 heart. 
 
 Alas ! poor humanity — that the mere countenance 
 of our betters (if they are our betters !) should be 
 thought so priceless a boon, so consummate an achieve- 
 ment, so crowning a glory, as all that ! 
 
 "A dirty bit of orange-peel, 
 Tlie stump of a cigar — 
 Once trod on by a princely heel, 
 How beautiful they are !" 
 
 Little Billee was no tuft-hunter — he was the tuft- 
 hunted, or had been. No one of his kind was ever 
 more persistently, resolutely, hospitably harried than 
 this young "hare with- many friends" by people of 
 rank and fashion. 
 
 And at first he thought them most charming; as 
 they so often are, these graceful, gracious, gay, good- 
 natured stoics and barbarians, whose manners are as 
 easy and simple as their morals — but how much better ! 
 — and who, at least, have this charm, that they can 
 wallow in untold gold (when they happen to possess 
 it) without ever seeming to stinlc of the same: yes, 
 they bear wealtli gracefully — and the want of it more 
 gracefully still ! and these are pretty accomplishments 
 that have yet to be learned by our new aristocracy of 
 the shop and counting-house, Jew or gentile, which is 
 
283 
 
 everywhere elbowing its irresistible way to the top 
 and front of everything, both here and abroad. 
 
 Then he discovered that, much as you might be 
 with them, you could never be of them, unless per- 
 chance you managed to hook on by marrying one of 
 their ugly ducklings — their failures — their remnants ! 
 and even then life isn't all beer and skittles for a rank 
 outsider, I'm told ! Then he discovered that he didn't 
 want to be of them in the least ; especially at such a 
 cost as that ! and that to be very much with them 
 was apt to pall, like everything else. 
 
 Also, he found that they were very mixed ; good, 
 bad, and indifferent — and not always very dainty or 
 select in their predilections, since they took unto their 
 bosoms such queer outsiders (just for the sake of being 
 amused a little while) that their capricious favor ceased 
 to be an honor and a glory — if it ever was ! And, then, 
 their fickleness ! 
 
 Indeed, he found, or thought he found, that they 
 could be just as clever, as liberal, as polite or refined 
 — as narrow, insolent, swaggering, coarse, and vulgar 
 — as handsome, as ugly — as graceful, as ungainly — as 
 modest or conceited, as any other upper class of the 
 community — and, indeed, some lower ones ! 
 
 Beautiful young women, who had been taught how 
 to paint pretty little landscapes (with an ivy-mantled 
 ruin in the middle distance), talked technically of paint- 
 ing to him, de pair a pair\ as though they were quite 
 on the same artistic level, and didn't mind admitting 
 it, in spite of the social gulf between. 
 
 Hideous old frumps (osseous or obese, yet with un- 
 duly bared neck, and shoulders that made him sick) 
 
234 
 
 patronized him and gave hira good advice, and told 
 iiim to emulate Mr. Buckner both in bis genius and 
 bis manners — since Mr. Buckner was tbe only " gentle- 
 man " wbo ever painted for bire ; and tbey promised 
 bim, in time, an equal success ! 
 
 Here and tbere some sweet old darling specially en- 
 slaved bim by ber kindness, grace, knowledge of life, 
 and tender womanly sympathy, like tbe dowager Lady 
 Cbiselburst — or some sweet young one, like tbe lovely 
 Ducbess of Towers, by ber beauty, wit, good-bumor, 
 and sisterly interest in all be did, and wbo in some 
 vague, distant manner constantly reminded bim of 
 Trilby, although she was such a great and fashionable 
 lady ! 
 
 But just such darlings, old or young, were to be 
 found, with still higher ideals, in less exalted spheres ; 
 and were easier of access, with no impassable gulf 
 between — spheres where there was no patronizing, 
 nothing but deference and warm appreciation and 
 delicate flattery, from men and women alike — and 
 where the aged Venuses, whose prime was of tbe days 
 of Waterloo, went Avith their historical remains duly 
 shrouded, like ivy - mantled ruins (and in the middle 
 distance I). 
 
 So he actually grew tired of tbe great before they 
 had time to tire of him — ^ incredible as it may seem, 
 and against nature; and this saved him many a heart- 
 burning; and he ceased to be seen at fashionable 
 drums or gatherings of any kind, except in one or two 
 houses where be was especially liked and made wel- 
 come for bis own sake ; such as Lord Chiselhurst's in 
 Piccadilly, where tbe " Moon-Dial " found a home for 
 
V^' 
 
236 
 
 a few years, before going to its last home and final 
 resting-place in the 'N'ational Gallery (R. I. P.) ; or 
 Baron Stoppenheim's in Cavendish Square, where 
 many lovely little water-colors signed W. B. occupied 
 places of honor on gorgeously gilded walls ; or the 
 gorgeously gilded bachelor rooms of Mr. Moses Lyon, 
 the picture-dealer in Upper Conduit Street — for Little 
 Billee (L much grieve to say it of a hero of romance) 
 was an excellent man of business. Tliat infinitesimal 
 dose of the good old Oriental blood kept him straight, 
 and not only made him stick to his last through thick 
 and thin, but also to those whose foot his last was 
 found to match (for he couldn't or wouldn't alter his 
 last). 
 
 He loved to make as much money as he could, that 
 he might spend it royally in pretty gifts to his mother 
 and sister, whom it was his pleasure to load in this 
 way, and whose circumstances had been very much 
 altered by his quick success. There was never a more 
 generous son or brother than Little Billee of the 
 clouded heart, that couldn't love any longer ! 
 
 As a set-off to all these splendors, it was also his 
 pleasure now and again to study London life at its 
 ower end — the eastest end of all. Whitechapel, the 
 Minories, the Docks, E,atcliffe Highway, Rotherhithe, 
 soon got to knov/ him well, and he found much to 
 mterest him and much to like among their denizens, 
 and made as many friends there among ship-carpen- 
 ters, excisemen, longshoremen, jack-tars, and what not, 
 as in Bayswater and Belgravia (or Bloomsbury). 
 
 He was especially fond of frequenting sing-songs, or 
 
237 
 
 " free-and-easys," where good, hard-working fellows 
 met of an evening to relax and smoke and drink and 
 sing — round a table well loaded with steaming tum- 
 blers and pewter pots, at one end of which sits Mr. 
 
 THE MOON-DIAL ' 
 
 Chairman in all his glory, and at the other " Mr. Vice." 
 They are open to any one who can afford a pipe, a 
 screw of tobacco, and a pint of beer, and who is will- 
 ing to do his best and sing a song. 
 
 iS'o introduction is needed ; as soon as any one has 
 seated himself and made himself comfortable, Mr. 
 Chairman taps the table with his long clay pipe, begs 
 for silence, and says to his vis-a-vis: "Mr. Vice, it 
 strikes me as the gen'l'man as is just come in 'as got a 
 
238 
 
 singing face. Per'aps, Mr. Yice, you'll be so very kind 
 as juster harsk the aforesaid genTman to oblige us 
 with a 'armony." 
 
 Mr. Yice then puts it to the new-comer, who, thus 
 appealed to, simulates a modest surprise, and finally 
 professes his willingness, like Mr. Barkis ; then, clear- 
 ing his throat a good many times, looks up to the ceil- 
 ing, and after one or two unsuccessful starts in differ- 
 ent keys, bravely sings " Kathleen Mavourneen," let us 
 say — perhaps in a touchingly sweet tenor voice : 
 
 " Kathleen jVIavoiirneen, the gry dawn is brykin', 
 The 'orn of the 'unter is 'card on the 'ill." . . . 
 
 And Little Billee didn't mind the dropping of all these 
 aitches if the voice was sympathetic and well in tune, 
 and the sentiment simple, tender, and sincere. 
 Or else, with a good rolling jingo bass, it was, 
 
 " 'Earts o' hoak are our ships ; 'earts o' hoak are our men ; 
 And we'll fight and we'll conkwer agen and agen !" 
 
 And no imperfection of accent, in Little Billee's esti- 
 mation, subtracted one jot from the manly British 
 pluck that found expression in these noble sentiments 
 — nor added one tittle to their swaggering, blatant, 
 and idiotically aggressive vulgarity ! 
 
 Well, the song finishes with general applause all 
 round. Then the chairman says, " Your 'ealth and 
 song, sir !" And drinks, and all do the same. 
 
 Then Mr. Yice asks, " What shall we 'ave the pleas- 
 ure of saying, sir, after that very nice 'armony ?" 
 
 And the blushing vocalist, if he knows the ropes, 
 
240 
 
 replies, " A roast leg o' mutton in ISTewgate, and no- 
 body to eat it !" Or else, " May 'im as is going up the 
 'ill o' prosperity never meet a friend coming down !" 
 Or else, " 'Ere's to 'er as shares our sorrers and doubles 
 our joys !" Or else, " 'Ere's to 'er as shares our joys 
 and doubles our expenses !" and so forth. 
 
 More drink, more applause, and many 'ear, 'ears. 
 And Mr. Vice says to the singer : " You call, sir. 
 Will you be so good as to call on some other gen'l'raan 
 for a 'armony ?" And so the evening goes on. 
 
 And nobody was more quickly popular at such 
 gatherings, or sang better songs, or proposed more 
 touching sentiments, or filled either chair or vice-chair 
 with more grace and dignity than Little Billee. Not 
 even Dodor or 1' Zouzou could have beaten him at that. 
 
 And he was as happy, as genial, and polite, as much 
 at his ease, in these humble gatherings as in the gilded 
 saloons of the great, where grand-pianos are, and hired 
 accompanists, and highly -paid singers, and a good 
 deal of talk while they sing. 
 
 So his powers of quick, wide, universal sympathy 
 grew and grew, and made up to him a little for his 
 lost power of being specially fond of special individ- 
 uals. For he made no close friends among men, and 
 ruthlessly snubbed all attempts at intimacy — all ad- 
 vances towards an affection which he felt he could not 
 return ; and more than one enthusiastic admirer of his 
 talent and his charm was forced to acknowledge that, 
 with all his gifts, he seemed heartless and capricious ; 
 as ready to drop you as he had been to take you up. 
 
 He loved to be wherever he could meet his kind, 
 high or low ; and felt as happy on a penny steamer 
 
241 
 
 as on the yacht of a milHonaire — on the crowded knife- 
 board of an omnibus as on the box-seat of a nobleman's 
 drag — happier ; he Uked to feel the warm contact of 
 his fellow-man at either shoulder and at his back, and 
 didn't object to a little honest grime ! And I think all 
 this genial caressing love of his kind, this depth and 
 breath of human sympathy, are patent in all his work. 
 
 On the whole, however, he came to prefer for society 
 that of the best and cleverest of his own class — those 
 Avho live and prevail by the professional exercise of 
 their own specially trained and highly educated wits, 
 the skilled workmen of the brain — from the Lord 
 Chief-Justice of England downward — the salt of the 
 earth, in his opinion : and stuck to them. 
 
 There is no class so genial and sympathetic as our 
 own^ in the long-run — even if it be but the criminal 
 class ! none where the welcome is likely to be so genu- 
 ine and sincere, so easy to win, so difficult to outstay, 
 if we be but decently pleasant and .successful ; none 
 where the memory of us will be kept so green (if we 
 leave any memory at all !). 
 
 So Little Billee found it expedient, when he wanted 
 rest and play, to seek them at the houses of those 
 whose rest and play were like his own — little halts in 
 a seeming happy life-journey, full of toil and strain 
 and endeavor ; oases of sweet water and cooling shade, 
 where the food was good and plentiful, though the 
 tents might not be of cloth of gold ; where the talk 
 was of something more to his taste than court or sport 
 or narrow party politics ; the new beauty ; the com- 
 ing match of the season ; the coming ducal conversion 
 to Rome ; the last elopement in high life — the next ! 
 
 16 
 
343 
 
 and where the music was that of the greatest music- 
 makers that can be, who found rest and play in mak- 
 ing better music for love than they ever made for 
 hire — and were listened to as they should be, with 
 understanding and religious silence, and all the fervent 
 gratitude they deserved. 
 
 There were several such houses in London then — 
 and are still — thank Heaven ! And Little Billee had 
 his little billet there — and there he was wont to drown 
 himself in waves of lovely sound, or streams of clever 
 talk, or rivers of sweet feminine adulation, seas! 
 oceans! — a somewhat relaxing bath! — and forget for 
 a while his everlasting chronic plague of heart-insensi- 
 bility, which no doctor could explain or cure, and to 
 which he was becoming gradually resigned — as one 
 does to deafness or blindness or locomotor ataxia — 
 for it had lasted nearly five years ! But now and 
 again, during sleep, and in a blissful dream, the lost 
 power of loving, — of loving mother, sister, friend — 
 would be restored to him ; just as with a blind man 
 who sometimes dreams he has recovered his sight ; 
 and the joy of it would wake him to the sad reality : 
 till he got to know, even in his dream, that he was 
 only dreaming, after all, whenever that priceless boon 
 seemed to be his own once more — and did his utmost 
 not to wake. And these were nights to be marked 
 with a white stone, and remembered ! 
 
 And nowhere was he happier than at the houses of 
 the great surgeons and physicians who interested 
 themselves in his strange disease. When the Little 
 Billees of this world fall ill, the great surgeons and 
 physicians (like the great singers and musicians) do 
 
243 
 
 better for them, out of mere love and kindness, than 
 for the princes of the earth, who pay them thousand- 
 guinea fees and load them with honors. 
 
 And of all these notable London houses none was 
 pleasanter than that of Corneljs the great sculptor, 
 and Little Billee was such a favorite in that house 
 that he was able to take his friends Taffy and the 
 Laird there the very day they came to London. 
 
 First of all they dined together at a delightful little 
 Franco-Italian pothouse near Leicester Square, where 
 they had bouillabaisse (imagine the Laird's dehght), 
 and spaghetti, and a poulet roti, which is such a differ- 
 ent affair from a roast fowl ! and salad, Avhich Taffy 
 was allowed to make and mix himself; and they all 
 smoked just where they sat, the moment they had swal- 
 lowed their food — as had been their way in the good 
 old Paris days. 
 
 That dinner was a happy one for Taffy and the 
 Laird, Avith their Little Billee apparently unchanged 
 — as demonstrative, as genial, and caressing as ever, 
 and with no swagger to speak of ; and with so many 
 things to talk about that were new to them, and of 
 snch delightful interest ! They also had much to say 
 — but they didn't say very much about Paris, for fear 
 of waking up Heaven knows what sleeping dogs ! 
 
 And every now and again, in the midst of all this 
 pleasant foregathering and communion of long-parted 
 friends, the pangs of Little Billee's miserable mind- 
 malady w^ould shoot through him like poisoned arrows. 
 
 He would catch himself thinking how fat and fussy 
 and serious about trifles Taffy had become ; and what 
 
244 
 
 a shiftless, feckless, futile duffer was the Laird ; and 
 how greedy they both were, and how red and coarse 
 their ears and gills and cheeks grew as they fed, and 
 how shiny their faces ; and how little he would care, 
 try as he might, if they both fell down dead under 
 the table ! And this would make him beliave more 
 caressingly to them, more genially and demonstrative- 
 ly than ever — for he knew it was all a grewsome phys- 
 ical ailment of his own, which he could no more help 
 than a cataract in his eye ! 
 
 Then, catching sight of his own face and form in a 
 mirror, he would curse himself for a puny, misbegot- 
 ten shrimp, an imp — an abortion — no bigger, by the 
 side of the herculean Taffy or tlie burly Laird of Cock- 
 pen, than six-pennorth o' half-pence : a wretched little 
 overrated follower of a poor trivial craft — a mere light 
 amuser ! For wlTat did pictures matter, or whether 
 they were good or bad, except to the triflers who 
 painted them, the dealers who sold them, the idle, un- 
 educated, purse-proud fools who bouglit them and 
 stuck them up on their walls because they were told ! 
 
 And he felt that if a dynamite shell were beneath 
 the table where they sat, and its fuse were smoking 
 under their very noses, he would neither wish to warn 
 his friends nor move himself. He didn't care a d ! 
 
 And all this made him so lively and brilliant in his 
 talk, so fascinating and droll and witty, that Taffy and 
 the Laird wondered at the improvement success and 
 the experience of life had wrought in him, and mar- 
 velled at the happiness of his lot, and almost found it 
 in their warm, affectionate hearts to feel a touch of 
 envy ! 
 
246 
 
 Oddly enough, in a brief flash of silence, " entre la 
 poire et le fromage," they heard a foreigner at an ad- 
 joining table (one of a very noisy group) exclaim : 
 " Mais quand je vous dis que jTai entendue, moi, la 
 Svengali ! et mome qu'elle a chante Tlmpromptu de 
 Chopin absolument comme si c'etait un piano qu'on 
 jouait ! voyons ! . . ." 
 
 "Farceur! la bonne blague!" said another — and 
 then the conversation became so noisily general it was 
 no good listening an}' more. 
 
 " Svengali ! how funny that name should turn up ! 
 I wonder what's become of our Svengali, by-the-way ?" 
 observed Taflfy. 
 
 "I remember A/.s playing Chopin's Impromptu," 
 said Little Billee ; " what a singular coincidence !" 
 
 There were to be more coincidences that night ; it 
 never rains them but it pours ! 
 
 So our three friends finished their coffee and liq- 
 ueured up, and went to Cornelys's, three in a han- 
 som — 
 
 " Like Mars, 
 A-smokin' their poipes and cigyars." 
 
 Sir Louis Cornelys, as everybody knows, lives in a 
 palace on Campden Hill, a house of many windows; 
 and whichever window he looks out of, he sees Ids 
 own garden and very little else. In spite of his eighty 
 years, he works as hard as ever, and his hand has lost 
 but little of its cunning. But he no longer gives those 
 splendid parties that made him almost as famous a 
 host as he was an artist. 
 
 When his beautiful wife died he shut himself up 
 
248 
 
 from the world ; and now he never stirs out of his 
 house and grounds except to fulfil his duties at the 
 Royal Academy and dine once a year with the Queen. 
 
 It was very different in the early sixties. There was 
 no pleasanter or more festiv^e house than his in London, 
 winter or summer — no lordlier host than he — no more 
 irresistible hostesses than Lady Cornely's and her love- 
 ly daughters ; and if ever music had a right to call 
 itself divine, it was there you heard it — on late Sat- 
 urday nights during the London season — when the for- 
 eign birds of song come over to reap their harvest 
 in London Town. 
 
 It was on one of the most brilliant of these Satur- 
 day nights that Taffy and the Laird, chaperoned by 
 Little Billee, made their debut at Mechelen Lodge, and 
 were received at the door of the immense music-room 
 by a tall, powerfid man with splendid eyes and a gray 
 beard, and a small velvet cap on his head — and by a 
 Greek matron so beautiful and stately and magnifi- 
 cently attired that they felt inclined to sink them on 
 their bended knees as in the presence of some over- 
 whelming Eastern royalty — -and were only prevented 
 from doing so, perhaps, by the simple, sweet, and cord- 
 ial graciousness of her welcome. 
 
 And whom should they be shaking hands with next 
 but Antony, Lorrimer, and the Greek — with each a 
 beard and mustache of nearly five years' growth ! 
 
 But they had no time for much exuberant greeting, 
 for there was a sudden piano crash — and then an 
 immediate silence, as though for pins to drop — and 
 Signor Giuglini and the wondrous maiden Adelina 
 Patti sang the Miserere out of Signor Verdi's most 
 
249 
 
 famous opera — to the delight of all but a few very 
 superior ones who had just read Mendelssohn's letters 
 (or misread them) and despised Itahan music; and 
 thought cheaply of " mere virtuosity," either vocal or 
 instrumental. 
 
 When this was over, Little Billee pointed out all the 
 lions to his friends — from the Prime-Minister down to 
 the present scribe — who was right glad to meet them 
 again and talk of auld lang syne, and present them to 
 the daughters of the house and other charming ladies. 
 
 Then Roucouly, the great French barytone, sang 
 Durien's favorite song, 
 
 " Plaisir d'amour nc dure qu'un moment; 
 Chagrin d'amour dure toiite la vie. ..." 
 
 with quite a little drawing-room voice— but quite as 
 divinely as he had sung " Nocil, noel," at the Madeleine 
 in full blast one certain Christmas Eve our three friends 
 remembered well. 
 
 Then there was a violin solo by young Joachim, 
 then as now the greatest violinist of his time ; and a 
 solo on the piano-forte by Madame Schumann, his 
 only peeress ! and these came as a wholesome check to 
 the levity of those for whom all music is but an agree- 
 able pastime, a mere emotional delight, in which the 
 intellect has no part ; and also as a well-deserved hu- 
 miliation to all virtuosi who play so charmingly that 
 they make their listeners forget the master who in- 
 vented the music in the lesser master who interprets it ! 
 
 For these two — man and woman — the highest of 
 their kind, never let you forget it was Sebastian Bach 
 
250 
 
 they were playing — ^playing in absolute perfection, in 
 absolute forgetfulness of themselves — so that if you 
 weren't up to Bach, you didn't have a very good 
 time ! 
 
 But if you were (or wished it to be understood or 
 thought you were), you seized your opportunity and 
 you scored ; and by the earnestness of your rapt and 
 tranced immobility, and the stony, gorgon-like inten- 
 sity of your gaze, 3'ou rebuked the friv^olous — as you 
 had rebuked them before by the listlessness and care- 
 lessness of your bored resignation to the Signorina 
 Fatti's trills and fioritures, or M. Eoucouly's pretty 
 little French mannerisms. 
 
 And what added so much to the charm of this de- 
 lightful concert was that the guests were not packed 
 together sardinewise, as they are at most concerts ; 
 they were comparatively few and well chosen, and 
 could get up and walk about and talk to their friends 
 between the pieces, and wander off into other rooms 
 and look at endless beautiful things, and stroll in the 
 lovely grounds, by moon or star or Chinese - lantern 
 light. 
 
 And there the frivolous could sit and chat and laugh 
 and flirt when Bach was being played inside ; and the 
 earnest wander up and down together in soul-commun- 
 ion, through darkened walks and groves and alleys 
 where the sound of French or Italian warblings could 
 not reach them, and talk in earnest tones of the great 
 Zola, or Guy de Maupassant and Pierre Loti, and ex- 
 ult in beautiful English over the inferiority of English 
 literature, English art, English music, English every- 
 thing else. 
 
2r,i 
 
 For these high-minded ones who can only bear the 
 sight of classical pictures and the sound of classical 
 music do not necessarily read classical books in any 
 language — no Shakespeares or Dantes or Molieres or 
 Goethes for them. They know a trick worth two of 
 that ! 
 
 And the mere fact that these three immortal 
 French writers of light books I have just named had 
 never been heard of at this particular period doesn't 
 very much matter; they had cognate predecessors 
 whose names I happen to forget. Any stick will do 
 to beat a dog with, and history is always repeating 
 itself. 
 
 Feydeau, or Flaubert, let us say — or for those who 
 don't know French and cultivate an innocent mind, 
 Miss Austen (for to be dead and buried is almost as 
 good as to be French and immoral !) — and Sebastian 
 Bach, and Sandro Botticelli — that all the arts should 
 be represented. These names are rather discrepant, 
 but they made very good sticks for dog-beating ; and 
 with a thorough knowledge and appreciation of these 
 (or the semblance thereof), you were well equipped in 
 those days to hold your own among the elect of in- 
 tellectual London circles, and snub the philistine to 
 rights. 
 
 Then, very late, a tall, good-looking, swarthy for- 
 eigner came in, with a roll of music in his hands, and 
 his entrance made quite a stir; you heard all round, 
 " Here's Glorioli," or " Ecco Glorioli," or " Voici Glo- 
 rioli,'' till Glorioli got on your nerves. And beauti- 
 ful ladies, ambassadresses, female celebrities of all 
 kinds, fluttered up to him and cajoled and fawned ;— 
 
253 
 
 as Svengali would have said, " Prinzessen, Comtessen, 
 Serene English Altessen !" — and they soon forgot 
 their Highness and their Serenity ! 
 
 For with very little pressing Glorioli stood up on 
 the platform, with his accompanist by his side at the 
 piano, and in his hands a sheet of music, at which he 
 never looked. He looked at the beautiful ladies, and 
 ogled and smiled ; and from his scarcely parted, moist, 
 thick, bearded lips, which he always licked before sing- 
 ing, there issued the most ravishing sounds that had 
 ever been heard from throat of man or woman or boy ! 
 He could sing both high and low and soft and loud, 
 and the frivolous were bewitched, as was only to 
 be expected; but even the earnestest of all, caught, 
 surprised, rapt, astounded, shaken, tickled, teased, 
 harrowed, tortured, tantalized, aggravated, seduced, 
 demoralized, corrupted into naturalness, forgot to dis- 
 semble their delight. 
 
 And Sebastian Bach (the especially adored of all 
 really great musicians, and also, alas ! of many prig- 
 gish outsiders who don't know a single note and can't 
 remember a single tune) was well forgotten for the 
 niffht ; and who were more enthusiastic than the two 
 great players who had been playing Bach that even- 
 ing? For these, at all events, were broad and catlio- 
 lic and sincere, and knew what was beautiful, what- 
 ever its kind. 
 
 It was but a simple little song that Glorioli sang, as 
 light and pretty as it could Avell be, almost worthy of 
 the words it was written to, and the words are De 
 Musset's ; and I love them so much I cannot resist 
 the temptation of setting them down here, for the 
 
254 
 
 mere sensuous delight of writing them, as though I 
 had just composed them myself : 
 
 "Bonjour, Suzon, ma fleur des bois I 
 Es-tu toujours la plus jolie ? 
 Je reviens, tel que tu me vcis, 
 
 D'un grand voyage en Italie ! 
 Du paradis j'ai fait le tour — 
 J'ai fait des vers — j'ai fait ramour. . , e 
 Mais que t'importe ! 
 Mais que t'importe ! 
 Je passe devaut ta maison : 
 Ouvre ta porte ! 
 Ouvre ta porte ! 
 Bonjour, Suzon ! 
 
 " Je t'ai vue au temps des lilas. 
 
 Ton coeur joyeux venait d'eclore, 
 Et tu disais : ' je ne veux pas, 
 
 Je ne veux pas qu'on m'aime encore.' 
 Qu'as-tu fait depuis nion depart ? 
 Qui part trop tot rcvient trop tard. 
 Mais que m'importe ? 
 Mais que m'importe ? 
 Je passe devant ta maison : 
 Ouvre ta porte ! 
 Ouvre ta porte ! 
 Bonjour, Suzon!" 
 
 And when it began, and while it lasted, and after it 
 was over, one felt really sorry for all the other sing- 
 ers. And nobody sang any more that night ; for Glo- 
 rioli was tired, and wouldn't sing again, and none 
 were bold enough or disinterested enough to sing 
 after him. 
 
 Some of my readers may remember that meteoric 
 bird of song, who, though a mere amateur, would 
 
ass 
 
 condescend to sing for a hundred guineas in the 
 saloons of the great (as Monsieur Jourdain sold cloth); 
 who would sing still better for love and glory in the 
 studios of his friends. 
 
 For Glorioli — the biggest, handsomest, and most 
 distinguished-looking Jew that ever was — one of the 
 Sephardim (one of tli<f Seraphim !) — hailed from Spain, 
 where he was junior partner in the great firm of 
 Morales, Perales, Gonzales & Glorioli, wine -mer- 
 chants, Malaga. lie travelled for his own firm; his 
 wine was good, and he sold much of it in England. 
 But his voice would bring him far more gold in the 
 month he spent here ; for his wines have been 
 equalled — even surpassed — • but there was no voice 
 like his anywhere in the world, and no more fin- 
 ished singer. 
 
 Anyhow, his voice got into Little Billee's head more 
 than any wine, and the boy could talk of nothing else 
 for days and weeks ; and was so exuberant in his ex- 
 pressions of delight and gratitude that the great sing- 
 er took a real fancy to him (especially when he was 
 told that this fervent boyish admirer was one of the 
 greatest of English painters) ; and as a mark of his 
 esteem, privately confided to him after supper that 
 every century two human nightingales were born — 
 only two ! a male and a female ; and that he, Glo- 
 rioli, was the representative " male rossignol of this 
 soi-disant dix-neuvieme siecle." 
 
 " I can well believe that ! And the female, your 
 mate that should be — la 7'ossignoUe, if there is such a 
 word ?" inquired Little Billee. 
 
 " Ah ! mon ami ... it was Alboni till la petite 
 
256 
 
 Adelina Patti came out a year or two ago ; and now 
 it is ^tj SvengalV 
 
 "LaSvengali?" 
 
 " Oui, mon f y ! You will hear her some day — et 
 vous m'en direz des nouvelles !" 
 
 " Why, you don't mean to say that she's got a bet- 
 ter voice than Madame Alboni V 
 
 "Mon ami, an apple is an excellent thing — until 
 you have tried a peach ! Her voice to that of Alboni 
 is as a peach to an apple — I give you my word of 
 honor ! but bah ! the voice is a detail. It's what she 
 does with it — it's incredible ! it gives one cold all down 
 the back ! it drives you mad ! it makes you weep hot 
 tears by the spoonful ! Ah ! the tear, mon fy ! tenez ! 
 I can draw everything but that! Qa n'est pas dans 
 mes cordes! /can only madden with love! But la 
 Svengali ! . . . And then, in the middle of it all, 
 prrrout ! . . . she makes you laugh ! Ah ! le beau rire ! 
 faire rire avec des larmes plein les yeux — voila qui me 
 passe! . . . Mon ami, when I heard her it made me 
 swear that even / would never try to sing any more 
 — it seemed too absurd ! and I kept my word for a 
 month at least— and you know, je sais ce que je vaux, 
 moi !" 
 
 "You are talking of la Svengali, I bet," said Signor 
 Spartia. 
 
 " Oui, parbleu ! You have heard her?" 
 
 " Yes — at Vienna last winter," rejoined the great- 
 est sino^ino'-master in the world. " J'en suis fou ! he- 
 las ! I thought / could teach a woman how to sing 
 till I heard that blackguard Svengali's pupil. He has 
 married her, they say !" 
 
A HUMAN NIUUTINUALK 
 
258 
 
 "That Uachguard Svengali!" exclaimed Little Bil- 
 lee , . . "why, that must be a Svengali I knew in 
 Paris — a famous pianist ! a friend of mine !" 
 
 " That's the man ! also une fameuse crapule (sauf 
 vot' respect) ; his real name is Adler ; his mother was 
 a Polish singer; and he was a pupil at the Leipsic 
 Conservatorio. But he's an immense artist, and a 
 great singing-master, to teach a woman like that ! and 
 such a woman ! belle comme un ange — mais bete 
 comme un pot. I tried to talk to her — all she can say 
 is ' ja wohl,' or " doch,' or ' nein,' or ' soh ' ! not a word 
 of English or French or Italian, though she sings 
 them, oh! but divinely! It is '■ il lei canto'' come 
 back to the world after a hundred years. . . ." 
 
 " But what voice is it ?" asked Little Billee. 
 
 " Every voice a mortal woman can have — three oc- 
 taves — four ! and of such a quality that people who 
 can't tell one tune from another cry with pleasure at 
 the mere sound of it directly they hear her ; just like 
 anybody else. Everything that Paganini could do 
 with his violin she does with her voice — only better 
 — and what a voice ! un vrai baume !" 
 
 " Now I don't mind petting zat you are schbeaking 
 of la Sfencali," said Herr Kreutzer, the famous com- 
 poser, joining in. " Quelle merfeille, hein ? I heard 
 her in St. Betersburg, at ze Vinter Balace. Ze vomen 
 all vent mat, and pulled off zeir bearls and tiamonts 
 and kave zem to her — vent town on zeir knees and 
 gried and gissed her hants. She tit not say vun vort ! 
 She tit not efen schmile ! Ze men schnifelled in ze 
 gorners, and looked at ze bictures, and tissempled — 
 efen I, Johann Kreutzer ! efen ze Emperor !" 
 
259 
 
 " You're joking-/' said Little Billee. 
 
 " My vrent, I neffer choke ven I talk apout zinging. 
 You vill hear her zum ta}' yourzellof, and you vill 
 acree viz me zat zere are two classes of beoble who 
 zing. Ill ze vun class, la Sfencali ; in ze ozzer, all ze 
 ozzer zingers !" 
 
 " And does she sing good music ?" 
 
 " I ton't know. All music is koot ven she zings it. 
 I forket ze zong ; I can only sink of ze zinger. Any 
 koot zinger can zing a peautiful zong and kif bleasure, 
 I zubboce ! But I voot zooner hear la Sfencali zing a 
 scale zan anypotty else zing ze most peautiful zong in 
 ze vorldt — efen vun of my own ! Zat is berhaps how 
 zung ze crate Italian zingers of ze last century. It vas 
 a lost art, and she has found it ; and she must haf pecun 
 to zing pefore she pecan to schpeak — or else she voot 
 not haf hat ze time to learn all zat she knows, for she 
 is not yet zirty ! She zings in Paris in Ogdoper, Gott 
 sei dank ! and gums here after Christmas to zing at 
 Trury Lane. ChuUien kifs her ten sousand bounts!" 
 
 " I wonder, now ! Why, that must be the Avoman 
 I heard at Warsaw two years ago — or three," said 
 young Lord Witlow. " It was at Count Siloszech's. 
 He'd heard her sing in the streets, with a tall, black- 
 bearded ruffian, who accompanied her on a guitar, 
 and a little fiddling gypsy fellow. She was a hand- 
 some woman, with hair down to her knees, but stupid 
 as an owl. She sang at Siloszech's, and all the fel- 
 lows went mad and gave her their watches and dia- 
 mond studs and gold scarf-pins. By gad ! I never 
 heard or saw anything like it. I don't know much 
 about music myself — couldn't tell ' God Save the 
 
260 
 
 Queen ' from ' Pop Goes the Weasel,' if the people 
 didn't get up and stand and take their hats off ; but I 
 was as mad as the rest — why, I gave her a little Ger- 
 man silver vinaigrette I'd just bought for my wife; 
 hanged if I didn't — and I was only just married, you 
 know ! It's the peculiar twang of her voice, I sup- 
 pose !" 
 
 And hearing all this. Little Billee made up his 
 mind that life had still something in store for him, 
 since he would some day hear la Svengali. Anyhow, 
 he wouldn't shoot himself till then I 
 
 Thus the night wore itself away. The Prinzessen, 
 Comtessen, and Serene English Altessen (and other 
 ladies of less exalted rank) departed home in cabs and 
 carriages ; and hostess and daughters went to bed. 
 Late sitters of the ruder sex supped again, and smoked 
 and chatted and listened to comic songs and recita- 
 tions by celebrated actors. Noble dukes hobnobbed 
 with low comedians ; world-famous painters and sculp- 
 tors sat at the feet of Hebrew capitalists and aitchless 
 millionaires. Judges, cabinet ministers, eminent phy- 
 sicians, and warriors and philosophers saw Sunday 
 morning steal over Campden Hill and through the 
 many windows of Mechelen Lodge, and listened to the 
 pipe of half- awakened birds, and smelled the fresh- 
 ness of the dark summer dawn. And as Taffy and 
 the Laird walked home to the Old Hummums by day- 
 light, they felt that last night was ages ago, and that 
 since then they had foregathered with " much there 
 was of the best in London." And then they reflected 
 that "much there was of the best in London" were 
 
^61 
 
 still strangers to them — except by reputation — for 
 there had not been time for many introductions : and 
 this had made them feel a little out of it ; and they 
 found they hadn't had such a very good time after 
 all. And there were no cabs. And they were tired, 
 and their boots were tight. 
 
 And the last they had seen of Little Billee before 
 leaving was a glimpse of their old friend in a corner 
 of Lady Cornelys's boudoir, gravely playing cup-and- 
 ball with Fred Walker for sixpences— both so rapt in 
 the game that they were unconscious of anything else, 
 and both playing so well (with either hand) that they 
 might have been professional champions ! 
 
 And that saturnine young sawbones, Jakes Talboys 
 (now Sir Jakes, and one of the most genial of Her 
 Majesty's physicians), who sometimes after supper and 
 champagne was given to thoughtful, sympathetic, and 
 acute observation of his fellow-men, remarked to the 
 Laird in a whisper that was almost convivial : " Rather 
 an enviable pair ! Their united ages amount to forty- 
 eight or so, their united weights to about fifteen stone, 
 and they couldn't carry you or me betv^een them. 
 But if you were to roll all the other brains that have 
 been under this roof to-night into one, you wouldn't 
 reach the sum of their united genius. ... I wonder 
 which of the two is the most unhappy !" 
 
 The season over, the song-birds flown, summer on 
 the wane, his picture, the " Moon-Dial," sent to Moses 
 Lyon's (the picture-dealer in Conduit Street), Little 
 
262 
 
 Billee felt the time had come to go and see his mother 
 and sister in Devonshire, and make the sun shine 
 twice as brightly for them during a month or so, and 
 the dew fall softer! 
 
 So one fine August morning found him at the Great 
 Western Station — the nicest station in all London, I 
 think — except the stations that book you to France 
 and far away. 
 
 It always seems so pleasant to be going west ! Lit- 
 tle Billee loved that station, and often went there for 
 a mere stroll, to watch the people starting on their 
 westward way, following the sun towards Heaven 
 knows what joys or sorrows, and envy them their 
 sorrows or their joys — any sorrows or joys that were 
 not merely physical, like a chocolate drop or a pretty 
 tune, a bad smell or a toothache. 
 
 And as he took a seat in a second-class carriage (it 
 would be third in these democratic days), south corner, 
 back to the engine, with Silas Jfa/mer, and Darwin's 
 Origin of /Species (which he was reading for the third 
 time), and Ptmc/i, and other literature of a lighter 
 kind, to beguile him on his journey, he felt rather bit- 
 terly how happy he could be if the little spot, or knot, 
 or blot, or clot which paralyzed that convolution of 
 his brain where he kept his affections could but be 
 conjured away ! 
 
 The dearest mother, the dearest sister in the world, 
 in the dearest little sea-side village (or town) that ever 
 was ! and other dear people— especially Alice, sweet 
 Alice with hair so brown, his sister's friend, the simple, 
 pure, and pious maiden of his boyish dreams : and 
 himself, but for that wretched little kill-joy cerebral 
 
CUP-AND-BALL 
 
264 
 
 occlusion, as sound, as healthy, as full of life and en- 
 ergy as he had ever been ! 
 
 And when he wasn't reading Silas Marner, or look- 
 ing out of window at the flying landscape, and watch- 
 ing it revolve round its middle distance (as it always 
 seems to do), he was sympathetically taking stock of 
 his fellow - passengers, and mildly envying them, one 
 after another, indiscrimmately ! 
 
 A fat, old, wheezy philistine, with a bulbous nose 
 and only one eye, who had a plain, sickly daughter, to 
 whom he seemed devoted, body and soul ; an old lady, 
 who still wept furtively at recollections of the parting 
 with her grandchildren, which had taken place at the 
 station (they had borne up wonderfully, as grandchil- 
 dren do) ; a consumptive curate, on the opposite cor- 
 ner seat by the window, whose tender, anxious wife 
 (sitting by his side) seemed to have no thoughts in the 
 whole world but for him ; and her patient eyes were 
 his stars of consolation, since he turned to look into 
 them almost every minute, and always seemed a little 
 the happier for doing so. There is no better star- 
 gazing than that ! 
 
 So Little Billee gave her up his corner seat, that the 
 poor sufferer might have those stars where he could 
 look into them comfortably without turning his head. 
 
 Indeed (as was his wont with everybody). Little Bil- 
 lee made himself useful and pleasant to his fellow- 
 travellers in many ways — so man}" that long before 
 they had reached their respective journeys' ends they 
 had almost grown to love him as an old friend, and 
 longed to know who this singularly attractive and 
 brilliant youth, this genial, dainty, benevolent little 
 
265 
 
 princekin could possibly be, who was dressed so fash- 
 ionably, and yet went second class, and took such kind 
 thought of others ; and they wondered at the happi- 
 ness that must be his at merely being alive, and told 
 him more of their troubles in six hours than they told 
 many an old friend in a year. 
 
 But he told them nothing about himself — that self 
 he was so sick of — and left them to wonder. 
 
 And at his own journey's end, the farthest end of 
 all, he found his mother and sister waiting for him, 
 in a beautiful little pony-carriage — his last gift — and 
 with them sweet Alice, and in her eyes, for one brief 
 moment, that unconscious look of love surprised which 
 is not to be forgotten for years and years and years — 
 which can only be seen by the eyes that meet it, and 
 wdiich, for the time it lasts (just a flash), makes all 
 women's eyes look exactly the same (I'm told) : and 
 it seemed to Little Billee that, for the twentieth part 
 of a second, Alice had looked at him with Trilby's 
 eyes — or his mother's, when that he was a little tiny 
 boy. 
 
 It aU but gave him the thrill he thirsted for ! An- 
 other twentieth part of a second, perhaps, and his 
 brain - trouble would have melted away ; and Little 
 Billee would have come into his own again — the king- 
 dom of love ! 
 
 A beautiful human eye ! Any beautiful eye — a 
 dog's, a deer's, a donkey's, an owl's even ! To think 
 of all that it can look, and all that it can see ! all that 
 it can even seem^ sometimes ! What a prince among 
 gems ! what a star ! 
 
 But a beautiful eye that lets the broad white light 
 
266 
 
 of infinite space (so bewildering and garish and dif- 
 fused) into one pure virgin heart, to be filtered there ! 
 and lets it out again, duly warmed, softened, concen- 
 trated, sublimated, focussed to a point as in a precious 
 stone, that it may shed itself (a love-laden effulgence) 
 into some stray fellow-heart close by — through pupil 
 and iris, entre quatre-z-yeux — the very elixir of life ! 
 
 Alas! that such a crown-jewel should ever lose its 
 lustre and go blind ! 
 
 Not so blind or dim, however, but it can still see 
 well enough to look before and after, and inward and 
 upward, and drown itself in tears, and yet not die ! 
 And that's the dreadful pity of it. And this is a quite 
 uncalled-for digression ; and I can't think why I should 
 have gone out of my way (at considerable pains) to 
 invent it ! In fact — 
 
 " Of this here song, should I be axed the reason for to show, 
 I don't exactly know, I don't exactly know ! 
 
 But all my fancy dwells upon Nancy." . . . 
 
 " How pretty Alice has grown, mother ! quite love- 
 ly, I think! and so nice; but she was always as nice 
 as she could be !" 
 
 So observed Little Billee to his mother that even- 
 ing as they sat in the garden and watched the cres- 
 cent moon sink to the Atlantic. 
 
 " Ah ! my darling Willie ! If you could only guess 
 how happy you would make your poor old mammy 
 by growing fond of Alice. . . And Blanche, too! 
 what a joy for her /" 
 
 " Good heavens ! mother. . . . Alice is not for the 
 likes of 7716 ! She's for some splendid young Devon 
 
267 
 
 squire, six foot bigh, and acred and whiskered within 
 an inch of his Hfe ! . . ." 
 
 " Ah, my darling Willie ! you are not of those who 
 ask for love in vain. ... If you only knew how she 
 believes in j^ou ! She al- 
 most beats your poor old 
 mammy at that /" 
 
 And that night he 
 dreamed of Alice — that 
 he loved her as a sweet 
 good woman should be 
 loved ; and knew, even in 
 his dream, that it was but 
 a dream ; but, oh ! it was 
 good ! and he managed 
 not to wake ; and it was 
 a night to be marked with 
 a white stone ! And (still 
 in his dream) she had 
 kissed him, and healed 
 
 him of his brain-trouble forever. But when he woke 
 next morning, alas ! his brain - trouble was with him 
 still, and he felt that no dream kiss would ever cure it 
 — nothing but a real kiss from Alice's own pure lips ! 
 
 And he rose thinking of Alice, and dressed and 
 breakfasted thinking of her — and how fair she was, 
 and how innocent, and how well and carefully trained 
 up the way she should go — the beau ideal of a wife. . . . 
 Could she possibly care for a shrimp like himself? 
 
 For in his love of outward form he could not under- 
 stand that any woman who had eyes to see should 
 ever quite condone the signs of physical weakness in 
 
 SWEET ALICE 
 
268 
 
 man, in favor of any mental gifts or graces whatso- 
 ever. 
 
 Little Greek that he was, he worshipped the athlete, 
 and opined that all women without exception — all 
 English women especially — must see with the same 
 eyes as himself. 
 
 He had once been vain and weak enough to believe 
 in Trilby's love (with a Taffy standing by — a careless, 
 unsusceptible Taffy, who was like unto the gods of 
 Olympus!) — and Trilby had given him up at a word, 
 a hint — for all his frantic clinD^ing'. 
 
 She would not have given up Taffy, pour si pen, 
 had Taffy but lifted a little finger ! It is always " just 
 whistle, and I'll como to you, my lad !" with the likes 
 of Taffy ... but Taffy hadn't even wliistled ! Yet 
 still he kept thinking of Alice — and he felt he couldn't 
 think of her well enough till he went out for a stroll 
 by himself on a sheep-trimmed down. So he took 
 his pipe and his Darwin, and out he strolled into the 
 early sunshine — up the green Red Lane, past the 
 pretty church, Alice's father's church — and there, at 
 the gate, patiently waiting for his mistress, sat Alice's 
 dog — an old friend of his, whose welcome was a very 
 warm one. 
 
 Little Billee thought of Thackeray's lovely poem in 
 Pendennis : 
 
 "She comes — she's here — she's past! 
 May heaven go with her ! . . ." 
 
 Then he and the dog went on together to a little 
 bench on the edg-e of the cliff — within sio:ht of Alice's 
 
269 
 
 bedroom window. It was called "the Honeymoon- 
 ers' Bench." 
 
 "That look — that look— that look! Ah — but 
 Trilby had looked like that, too! And there are 
 many Taffys in Devon !" 
 
 He sat himself down and smoked and gazed at the 
 sea below, which the sun (still in the east) had not 
 yet filled with glare and robbed of the lovely sap- 
 phire-blue, shot with purple and dark green, that 
 comes over it now and again of a morning on that 
 most beautiful coast. 
 
 There was a fresh breeze from the west, and the 
 long, slow billows broke into creamier foam than ever, 
 which reflected itself as a tender white gleam in the 
 blue concavities of their shining shoreward curves as 
 they came rolling in. The sky was all of turquoise 
 but for the smoke of a distant steamer — a long thin 
 horizontal streak of dun — and there were little brown 
 or white sails here and there, dotting ; and the stately 
 ships went on. . . . 
 
 Little Billee tried hard to feel all this beauty with 
 his heart as well as his brain — as he had so often 
 done when a bo}'- — and cursed his insensibility out 
 loud for at least the thousand and first time. 
 
 Why couldn't these waves of air and water be 
 turned into equivalent waves of sound, that he might 
 feel them through the only channel that reached his 
 emotions! That one joy was still left to him — but, 
 alas ! alas ! he was only a painter of pictures — and not 
 a maker of music ! 
 
 He recited "Break, break, break," to Alice's dog, 
 who loved him, and looked up into his face with sapi- 
 
270 
 
 ent, affectionate eyes — and whose name, like that of 
 so many dogs in fiction and so few in fact, was simplj'- 
 Tray. For Little Billee was much given to mono- 
 logues out loud, and profuse quotations from his fa- 
 vorite bards. 
 
 Everybody quoted that particular poem either men- 
 tally or aloud when they sat on that particular bench 
 — except a few old-fashioned people, who still said, 
 
 " Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll !" 
 
 or people of the very highest culture, who only quoted 
 the nascent (and crescent) Robert iBrowning ; or peo- 
 ple of no culture at all, who simply held their tongues 
 — and only felt the more ! 
 
 Tray listened silently. 
 
 " Ah, Tray, the best thing but one to do with the 
 sea is to paint it. The next best thing to that is to 
 bathe in it. The best of all is to lie asleep at the bot- 
 tom. How would you like that ? 
 
 "'And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, 
 
 And in thy heart the scrawl shall play. . . .'" 
 
 Tray's tail became as a wagging point of interroga- 
 tion, and he turned his head first on one side and then 
 on the other — his eyes fixed on Little Billee's, his face 
 irresistible in its genial doggy wistfulness. 
 
 " Tray, what a singularly good listener you are — 
 and therefore what singularly good manners you've 
 got ! I suppose all dogs have !" said Little Billee ; and 
 then, in a very tender voice, he exclaimed, 
 
271 
 
 " Alice, Alice, Alice !" 
 
 And Tray uttered a soft, cooing, nasal croon in his 
 head register, though he was a barytone dog by nat- 
 ure, with portentous, warlike chest-notes of the jingo 
 order. 
 
 " Tray, your mistress is a parson's daughter, and 
 therefore twice as much of a mystery as any other 
 woman in this puzzling world ! 
 
 " Tray, if my heart weren't stopped with wax, like 
 the ears of the companions of Ulysses when they rowed 
 past the sirens — you've heard of Ulysses, Tray? he 
 loved a dog — if my heart weren't stopped with wax, 
 I should be deeply in love with your mistress ; per- 
 haps she would marry me if I asked her — there's no 
 accounting for tastes! — and I know enough of myself 
 to know that I should make her a good husband — that 
 I should make her happy — and I should make two 
 other women happy besides. 
 
 " As for myself personally, Tray, it doesn't very 
 much matter. One good woman would do as well as 
 another, if she's equally good-looking. You doubt it ? 
 Wait till you get a pimple inside your bump of — your 
 bump of — wherever you keep your fondnesses. Tray. 
 
 "For that's what's the matter with me — a pimple — 
 just a little clot of blood at the root of a nerve, and no 
 bigger than a pin's point! 
 
 " That's a small thing to cause such a lot of wretch- 
 edness, and wreck a fellow's life, isn't it ? Oh, curse it, 
 curse it, curse it — every day and all day long ! 
 
 " And just as small a thing will take it away, I'm 
 told ! 
 
 " Ah ! grains of sand are small things — and so are 
 
272 
 
 diamonds ! But diamond or grain of sand, only Alice 
 has got that small thing ! Alice alone, in all the world, 
 has got the healing touch for me now ; the hands, the 
 lips, the eyes ! I know it — I feel it ! I dreamed it last 
 night ! She looked me well in the face, and took my 
 hand — both hands — and kissed me, eyes and mouth, 
 and told me how she loved me. Ah ! what a dream 
 it was ! And my little clot melted away like a snow- 
 flake on the lips, and I was ray old self again, after 
 many years — and all through that kiss of a pure 
 woman. 
 
 " I've never been kissed by a pure woman in my life 
 — never ! except by my dear mother and sister ; and 
 mothers and sisters don't count, when it comes to 
 kissing. 
 
 " Ah ! sweet physician that she is, and better than 
 all ! It will all come back again with a rush, just as I 
 dreamed, and we will have a good 
 J I i«i ' ' MMi, time together, we three! . . . 
 
 " But your mistress is a par- 
 son's daughter, and believes 
 everything she's been taught 
 from a child, just as you do 
 — at least, I hope so. And 
 I like her for it — and 
 you too. 
 
 She has believed 
 
 her father — will 
 
 she ever belie v^e 
 
 me, who think 
 
 so differently ? 
 
 " MAY HEAVEN GO WITH HER !" And if SllC dOCS, 
 
273 
 
 will it be good for her? — and then, where will her 
 father come in ? 
 
 " Oh ! it's a bad thing to live, and no longer believe 
 and trust in your father, Tray ! to doubt either his hon- 
 esty or his intelligence. For he (with your mother to 
 help) has taught you all the best he knows, if he has 
 been a good father — till some one else comes and 
 teaches you better — or worse ! 
 
 "And, then, what are you to believe of what good 
 still remains of all that early teaching — and how are 
 you to sift the wheat from the chaff? . . . 
 
 " Kneel undisturbed, fair saint ! I, for one, will nev- 
 er seek to undermine thy faith in any father, on earth 
 or above it ! 
 
 " Yes, there she kneels in her father's church, her 
 pretty head bowed over her clas})ed hands, her cloak 
 and skirts falling in happy folds about her : I see it all! 
 
 "And underneath, that poor, sweet, soft, pathetic 
 thing of flesh and blood, the eternal woman — great 
 heart and slender brain — forever enslaved or enslav- 
 ing, never self-sufficing, never free . . . that dear, weak, 
 delicate shape, so cherishable, so perishable, that I've 
 had to paint so often, and know so well by heart ! and 
 love . . . ah, how I love it ! Only painter-fellows and 
 sculptor -fellows can ever quite know the fulness of 
 that pure love. 
 
 "There she kneels and pours forth her praise or 
 plaint, meekly and duly. Perhaps it's for me she's 
 praying ! 
 
 " ' Leave tliou thy sister when she prays,' 
 " She believes her poor little prayer will be heard 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 and answered somewhere up aloft. The impossible 
 will be done. She wants what she wants so badly, 
 and prays for it so hard. 
 
 " She believes — she believes — what doesnH she be- 
 lieve, Tray ? 
 
 " The world was made in six days. It is just six 
 thousand years old. Once it all lay smothered under 
 rain-water for many weeks, miles deep, because there 
 were so many wicked people about somewhere down 
 in Jude6', where they didn't know everything! A 
 costly kind of clearance ! And tlien there was Noah, 
 who wasnH wicked, and his most respectable family, 
 and his ark — and Jonah and his whale — and Joshua 
 and the sun, and what not. I remember it all, you 
 see, and, oh ! such wonderful things that have hap- 
 pened since ! And there's everlasting agony for those 
 who don't believe as she does ; and yet she is happy, 
 and good, and very kind ; for the mere thought of 
 any live creature in pain makes her wretched ! 
 
 " After all, if she believes in me, she'll believe in 
 anything ; let her ! 
 
 " Indeed, I'm not sure that it's not rather ungainly 
 for a pretty woman not to believe in all these good 
 old cosmic taradiddles, as it is for a pretty child not to 
 believe in Little Red Riding-hood, and Jack and the 
 Beanstalk, and Morgiana and tlie Forty Thieves ; we 
 learn them at our mother's knee, and how nice they 
 are ! Let us go on believing them as long as we can, 
 till the child grows up and the woman dies and it's 
 all found out. 
 
 " Yes, Tray, I will be dishonest for her dear sake. I 
 will kneel by her side, if ever I have the happy chance, 
 
275 
 
 and ever after, night and morning, and all day long on 
 Sundays if she wants me to ! What will I not do for 
 that one pretty woman who believes in me f I will re- 
 spect even that belief, and do my little best to keep it 
 alive forever. It is much too precious an earthly boon 
 for me to play ducks and drakes with. . . . 
 
 "So much for Alice, Tray — your sweet mistress and 
 mine. 
 
 " But, then, there's Alice's papa — and that's another 
 pair of sleeves, as Ave say in France. 
 
 " Ought one ever to play at make-believe with a 
 full-grown man for any consideration whatever — even 
 though he be a parson, and a possible father-in-law ? 
 There's a case of conscience for you ! 
 
 "When I ask him for his daughter, as I must, and 
 he asks me for my profession of faith, as he will, what 
 can I tell him ? The truth ? 
 
 " But, then, what will he say ? What allowances 
 will he make foi' a poor little weak-kneed, well-mean- 
 ing waif of a painter-fellow like me, whose only choice 
 lay between Mr. Darwin and the Pope of Eorae, and 
 who has chosen once and forever — and that long ago 
 — before he'd ever even heard of Mr. Darwin's name. 
 
 " Besides, why should he make allowances for me ? 
 I don't for him. 1 think no more of a parson than he 
 does of a painter-fellow — and that's precious little, I'm 
 afraid. 
 
 " What will he think of a man Avho says : 
 
 "'Look here! the God of your belief isn't mine 
 and never will be — but I love your daughter, and she 
 loves me, and I'm the only man to make her happy !' 
 
 " He's no Jephthah ; he's made of flesh and blood, 
 
276 
 
 although he's a parson — and loves his daughter as 
 much as Shylock loved his. 
 
 " Tell me, Tray— thou that livest among parsons — 
 what man, not being a parson himself, can guess how 
 a parson would think, an average parson, confronted 
 by such a poser as that ? 
 
 " Does he, dare he, can he ever think straight or 
 simply on any subject as any other man thinks, hedged 
 in as he is by so many limitations ? 
 
 " He is as shrewd, vain, worldly, self-seeking, am- 
 bitious, jealous, censorious, and all the rest, as you or 
 I, Tray — for all his Christian profession — and just as 
 fond of his kith and kin ! 
 
 " He is considered a gentleman — which perhaps you 
 and I are not — unless we happen to behave as such; 
 it is a condition of his noble calling. Perhaps it's in 
 order to become a gentleman that he's become a par- 
 son ! It's about as short a royal road as any to that 
 enviable distinction — as short almost as her Majesty's 
 commission, and much safer, and much less expensive 
 — within reach of the sons of most fairly successful 
 butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers. 
 
 " While still a boy he has bound himself irrevocably 
 to certain beliefs, which he will be paid to preserve 
 and preach and enforce through life, and act up to 
 through thick and thin — at all events, in the eyes of 
 others — even his nearest and dearest — even the wife 
 of his bosom. 
 
 " They are his bread and butter, these beliefs — and 
 a man mustn't quarrel Avith his bread and butter. But 
 a parson must quarrel with those who don't believe as 
 he tells them ! 
 
" ' so MUCH FOR ALICK, TRAY ' " 
 
 "Yet a few years' thinking and reading and experi- 
 ence of life, one would suppose, might possibly just 
 shake his faith a little (just as though, instead of be- 
 ing parson, he had been tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, 
 gentleman, apothecary, ploughboy, thief), and teach 
 him that many of these beliefs are simply childish — 
 and some of them very wicked indeed — and most im- 
 moral. 
 
 "It is very wicked and most immoral to believe, or 
 affect to believe, and tell others to believe, that the un- 
 seen, unspeakable, unthinkable Immensity we're all 
 part and parcel of, source of eternal, infinite, inde- 
 
378 
 
 structible life and light and might, is a kind of wrath- 
 ful, glorified, and self-glorifying' ogre in human shape, 
 with human passions, and most inhuman hates — who 
 suddenly made us out of nothing, one fine day — just 
 for a freak — and made us so badly that we fell the 
 next — and turned us adrift the day after — damned us 
 from the very beginning — ah ovo — ah ovo usque ad 
 malum — ha, ha! — and ever since! never gave us a 
 chance ! 
 
 " All-merciful Father, indeed ! "Why, the Prince of 
 Darkness was an angel in comparison (and a gentle- 
 man into the bargain). 
 
 "Just think of it, Tray — a finger in every little 
 paltry pie — an eye and an ear at every key-hole, even 
 that of the larder, to catch us tripping, and find out if 
 we're praising loud enough, or grovelling low enough, 
 or fasting hard enougli — poor god-forsaken worms ! 
 
 "And if we're naughty and disobedient, everlasting 
 torment for us ; torture of so hideous a kind that we 
 wouldn't inflict it on the basest criminal, not for one 
 single moment ! 
 
 " Or else, if we're good and do as we are bid, an 
 eternity of bliss so futile, so idle, and so tame that we 
 couldn't stand it for a week, but for thinking of its 
 one horrible alternative, and of our poor brother for 
 ever and ever roasting away, and howling for the 
 drop of water he never gets. 
 
 " Everlasting flame, or everlasting dishonor — noth- 
 ing between ! 
 
 "Isn't it ludicrous as well as pitiful — a thing to 
 make one snigger through one's tears? Isn't it a 
 grievous sin to believe in such things as these, and go 
 
379 
 
 about teaching and preaching them, and being paid 
 for it — a sin to be heavily chastised, and a shame? 
 What a legacy ! 
 
 " They were shocking bad artists, those conceited, 
 narrow-minded Jews, those poor old doting monks 
 and priests and bigots of the grew some, dark age of 
 faith ! They couldn't draw a bit — no perspective, no 
 chiaro-oscuro ; and it's a woful image they managed to 
 evolve for us out of the depths of their fathomless 
 ignjorance, in their zeal to keep us off all the forbidden 
 fruit we're all so fond of, because we were built like 
 that ! And by whom ? By our Maker, I suppose 
 (who also made the forbidden fruit, and made it very 
 nice — and put it so conveniently for you and me to 
 see and smell and reach. Tray — and sometimes even 
 pick, alas !). 
 
 " And even at that it's a failure. Only the very 
 foolish little birds are frightened into good behavior. 
 The naughty ones laugh and wink at each other, and 
 pull out its hair and beard when nobody's looking, and 
 build their nests out of the s-traw it's stuffed with (the 
 naughty little birds in black, especially), and pick up 
 what they want under its very nose, and thrive un- 
 commonly well ; and the good ones fly away out of 
 sight ; and some day, perhaps, find a home in some 
 happy, useful father-land far away, where the Father 
 isn't a bit like this. Who knows ? 
 
 "And' I'm one of the good little birds. Tray — at 
 least, I hope so. And that unknown Father lives in 
 me whether I will or no, and I love Him whether He 
 be or not, just because I can't help it, and with the 
 best and bravest love that can be — the perfect love 
 
280 
 
 that believeth no evil, and seeketh no reward, and 
 casteth out fear. For I'm His father as much as He's 
 mine, since I've conceived the thought of Him after 
 my own fashion ! 
 
 "And He lives in you too, Tray — you and all your 
 kind. Yes, good dog, 3'ou king of beasts, I see it in 
 your eyes. . . . 
 
 " Ah, bon Dieu Pere, le Dieu des bonnes gens ! 
 Oh ! if we only knew for certain, Tray ! what mar- 
 tyrdom would we not endure, you and I, with a hap- 
 py smile and a grateful heart — for sheer love of such 
 a father ! How little should we care for the things of 
 this earth ! 
 
 " But the poor parson? 
 
 " He must willy-nilly go on believing, or affecting 
 to believe, just as he is told, word for word, or else 
 good-bye to his wife and children's bread and butter, 
 his own preferment, perhaps even his very gentility — 
 that gentility of which his Master thought so little, and 
 he and his are apt to think so much — with possibly 
 the Archbishopric of Canterbury at the end of it, the 
 . baton de marechal that lies in every clerical knapsack. 
 
 " What a temptation ! one is but human ! 
 
 " So how can he be honest without believing certain 
 things, to believe which (without shame) one must be 
 as simple as a little child ; as, by-the-way, he is so clev- 
 erly told to be in these matters, and so cleverly tells 
 us — and so seldom is himself in any other matter 
 whatever — his own interests, other people's affairs, 
 ' the world, the flesh, and the devil ! And that's clever 
 of him too. . . . 
 
 " And if he chooses to be as simple as a little child, 
 
281 
 
 why shouldn't I treat him as a little child, for his own 
 good, and fool him to the top of his little bent for his 
 dear daughter's sake, that I may make her happy, and 
 thereby him too ? 
 
 "And if he's not quite so simple as all that, and 
 makes artful little compromises with his conscience — 
 for a good purpose, of course — why shouldn't I make 
 artful little compromises with mine, and for a better 
 purpose still, and try to get what I want in the way 
 he does ? I want to marry his daughter far worse than 
 he can ever want to live in a palace, and ride in a 
 carriage and pair with a mitre on the panels. 
 
 " If he cheats, why shouldn't I cheat too ? 
 
 " If he cheats, he cheats everybody all round — the 
 wide, wide world, and something wider and higher 
 still that can't be measured, something in himself. / 
 only cheat him ! 
 
 "7/^ he cheats, he cheats for the sake of very worldly 
 things indeed — tithes, honors, influence, power, au- 
 thority, social consideration and respect — not to speak 
 of bread and butter ! / only cheat for the love of a 
 lady fair — and cheating for cheating, I like my cheat- 
 ing best. 
 
 " So, whether he cheats or not, I'll — 
 
 "Confound it! what w^ould old Taffy do in such a 
 case, I wonder? . . . 
 
 " Oh, bother ! it's no good wondering w^hat old Taffy 
 would do. 
 
 " Taffy never wants to marry anyhodi/s daughter ; 
 he doesn't even w^ant to paint her ! He only w^ants to 
 paint his beastly ragamuffins and thieves and drunk- 
 ards, and be left alone. 
 
283 
 
 " Besides, Taffy's as simple as a little child himself, 
 and couldn't fool any one, and wouldn't if he could — 
 not even a parson. But if any one tries to fool him, 
 my eyes ! don't he cut up rough, and call names, and 
 kick up a sliindy, and even knock people down ! That's 
 the worst of fellows like Taffy. They're too good for 
 this world and too solemn. They're impossible, and 
 lack all sense of humor. In point of fact, Taffy's a 
 gentleman — poor fellow ! etj)uis voild ! 
 
 "I'm not simple — worse luck; and I can't knock 
 people down— I only wish I could! I can only paint 
 them ! and not even that ' as they really are !' . . . Good 
 old Taffy ! . . . 
 
 " Faint heart never won fair lady ! 
 
 "Oh, happy, happy thought — I'll be brave and 
 win! 
 
 " I can't knock people down, or do doughty deeds, 
 but I'll be brave in my own little way — the only way 
 I can. . . . 
 
 " I'll simply lie through thick and thin — I must — I . 
 will — nobody need ever be a bit the wiser! I can 
 do more good by lying than by telling the truth, 
 and make more deserving people happy, including my- 
 self and the sweetest girl alive — the end shall justify 
 the means: that's my excuse, my only excuse! and 
 this lie of mine is on so stupendous a scale that it will 
 have to last me for life. It's my only one, but its 
 name is Lion ! and I'll never tell another as long as I 
 live. 
 
 " And now that I know what temptation really is, 
 ril never think any harm of any parson any more . . . 
 never, never, never !" 
 
283 
 
 So the little man went on, as if he knew all about 
 it, had found it all out for himself, and nobody else 
 had ever found it out before ! and I am not responsible 
 for his ways of thinking (which are not necessarily 
 my own). 
 
 It must be remembered, in extenuation, that he was 
 very young, and not very wise: no philosopher, no 
 scholar — just a painter of lovely pictures; only that 
 and nothing more. Also, that he was reading Mr. 
 Darwin's immortal book for the third time, and it was 
 a little too strong for him ; also, that all this happened 
 in the early sixties, long ere Religion had made up her 
 mind to meet Science half-way, and hobnob and kiss 
 and be friends. Alas! before such a lying down of 
 the lion and the lamb can ever come to pass, Religion 
 will have to perform a larger share of the journey than 
 half, I fear ! 
 
 Then, still carried away by the flood of his own 
 eloquence (for he had never had such an innings as 
 this, no such a listener), he again apostrophized the 
 dog Tray, who had been growing somewhat inatten- 
 tive (like the reader, perhaps), in language more beau- 
 tiful than ever : 
 
 "Oh, to be like you. Tray — and secrete love and 
 good-will from morn till night, from night till morn- 
 ing — like saliva, without effort! Avith never a mo- 
 ment's cessation of flow, even in disgrace and humili- 
 ation ! IIo\v much better to love than to be loved — 
 to love as you do, my Tray — so warmly, so easily, so 
 unremittingly — to forgive all wrongs and neglect and 
 injustice so quickly and so well — and forget a kind- 
 ness never! Lucky dog that you are ! 
 
284 
 
 " 'Oh ! could I feel as I have felt, or be as I have been, 
 
 Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene, 
 As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all bi'ackish tho' they 
 
 be, 
 So 'midst this withered waste of life those tears would flow 
 
 to me !' 
 
 "What do you think of those lines, Tray? I love 
 them, because my mother taught them to me when I 
 was about your age — six years old, or seven! and be- 
 fore the bard who wrote them had fallen; like Lu- 
 cifer, son of the morning ! Have you ever heard of 
 Lord Bj'ron, Tray? He too, like Ulysses, loved a dog, 
 and many people think that's about the best there is 
 to be said of him nowadays ! Poor Ilurapty Diimptj'^ ! 
 Such a swell as he once was! 'Not all the king's 
 horses, nor all the — ' " 
 
 Here Tray jumped up suddenly and bolted — he saw 
 some one else he was fond of, and ran to meet him. It 
 was the vicar, coming out of his vicarage. 
 
 A very nice-looking vicar — fresh, clean, alert, well 
 tanned by sun and wind and weather — a youngish 
 vicar still; tall, stout, gentlemanlike, shrewd, kindly, 
 wordly, a trifle pompous, and authoritative more than 
 a trifle ; not much given to abstract speculation, and 
 thinking fifty times more of any sporting and ortho- 
 dox young country squire, well-inched and well-acred 
 (and well-whiskered), than of all the painters in Chris- 
 tendom. 
 
 " ' When Greeks joined Greeks, then w^as the tug of 
 war,' " thought Little Billee ; and he felt a little uncom- 
 fortable. Alice's father had never loomed so big and 
 impressive before, or so distressingly nice to look at. 
 
285 
 
 " Welcome, my Apelles, to your ain countree, which 
 is growing quite proud of you, I declare ! Young Lord 
 Archie Waring was saying only last night that he 
 wished he had half your talent ! He's crazed about 
 painting, you know, and actually wants to be a painter 
 himself! The poor dear old marquis is quite sore 
 about it !" 
 
 With this happy exordium the parson stopped and 
 shook hands ; and they both stood for a while, looking 
 seaward. The parson said the usual things about the 
 sea — its blueness ; its grayness ; its greenness ; its 
 beauty ; its sadness ; its treacher}^ 
 
 " ' Who shall put forth on thee, 
 Unfalhouiable sea !' " 
 
 " Who indeed !" answered Little Billee, quite agree- 
 ing. " I vote we don't, at all events." So they turned 
 inland. 
 
 The parson said the usual things about the land 
 (from the country -gentleman's point of view), and the 
 talk began to flow quite pleasantly, with quoting of 
 the usual poets, and capping of quotations in the usual 
 way — for they had known each other many years, 
 both here and in London. Indeed, the vicar had once 
 been Little Billee's tutor. 
 
 And thus, amicably, they entered a small wooded 
 hollow. Then the vicar, turning of a sudden his full 
 blue gaze on tlie painter, asked, sternly : 
 
 " What book's that you've got in your hand, Wil- 
 lie?" 
 
 "A — a — its the Origin of Sjyecies, by Charles Dar- 
 win, I'm very f-f-fond of it. I'm reading it for the 
 
286 
 
 third time. . . . It's very g-g-good. It accounts for 
 things, you know." 
 
 Then, after a pause, and still more sternly : 
 
 "What place of worship do you most attend in Lon- 
 don — especially of an evening, William V 
 
 Then stammered Little Billee, all self-control forsak- 
 ing him : 
 
 "I d-d -don't attend any place of worship at all, 
 morning, afternoon, or evening, I've long given up 
 going to church altogether. I can only be frank with 
 you ; I'll tell you why. . . ." 
 
 And as they walked along the talk drifted on to 
 very momentous subjects indeed, and led, unfortu- 
 nately, to a serious falling out — for which probably 
 both were to blame — and closed in a distressful way 
 at the other end of the little wooded hollow — a way 
 most sudden and unexpected, and quite grievous to re- 
 late. When they emerged into the open the parson 
 was quite white, and the jminter crimson. 
 
 " Sir," said the parson, squaring himself up to more 
 than his full height and breadth and dignity, his face 
 big with righteous wrath, his voice full of strong men- 
 ace — " sir, you're — you're a — you're a thief, sir, a thief! 
 You're trying to roh me of my Saviour ! Never you 
 dare to darken my door-step again !" 
 
 " Sir," said Little Billee, with a bow, " if it comes to 
 calling names, you're — you're a — no ; you're Alice's 
 father ; and whatever else you are besides, I'm anoth- 
 er for trying to be honest with a parson ; so good- 
 morning to you." 
 
 And each walked off in an opposite direction, stiff 
 as pokers; and Tray stood between, looking first 
 
^^ 
 
 ' you're a thief, sir !' " 
 
288 
 
 at one receding figure, then at the other, disconso- 
 late. 
 
 And thus Little Billee found out that he could no 
 more lie than he could fly. And so he did not marry 
 sweet Alice after all, and no doubt it was ordered for 
 her good and his. But there was tribulation for many 
 days in the house of Bagot, and for many months in 
 one tender, pure, and pious bosom. 
 
 And the best and the worst of it all is that, not very 
 many years after, the good vicar — more fortunate than 
 most clergymen who dabble in stocks and shares — 
 grew suddenly very rich through a lucky speculation 
 in Irish beer, and suddenly, also, took to thinking se- 
 riously about things (as a man of business should) — 
 more seriously than he had ever thought before. So 
 at least the story goes in North Devon, and it is not so 
 new as to be incredible. Little doubts grew into big 
 ones — bio: doubts resolved themselves into downright 
 negations. He quarrelled with his bishop ; he quar- 
 relled with his dean ; he even quarrelled with his " poor 
 dear old marquis," who died before there was time to 
 make it up again. And finally he felt it his duty, in 
 conscience, to secede from a Church which had become 
 too narrow to hold him, and took himself and his be- 
 lonffinfis to London, where at least he coukl breathe. 
 But there he fell into a great disquiet, for the long 
 habit of feeling himself always en evidence — of being 
 looked up to and listened to without contradiction; 
 of exercising influence and authority in spiritual mat- 
 ters (and even temporal) ; of impressing women, es- 
 peciall}'^, Avith his commanding presence, his fine so- 
 norous voice, his lofty brow, so serious and smooth, his 
 
389 
 
 soft, big, waving hands, which soon lost their country 
 tan — all this had grown as a second nature to him, the 
 breath of his nostrils, a necessity of his life. So he 
 rose to be the most popular Unitarian preacher of his 
 day, and pretty broad at that. 
 
 But his dear daughter Alice, she stuck to the old 
 faith, and married a venerable High-Church archdea- 
 con, who very cleverly clutched at and caught her and 
 saved her for himself just as she stood shivering on 
 the very brink of Eome ; and they were neither happy 
 nor unhappy together — U7i menage houvgeois^ ni heau 
 ni laid, ni hon ni mauvais. And thus, alas ! the bond 
 of religious sympathy, that counts for so much in 
 united families, no longer existed between father and 
 daughter, and the heart's division divided them. Ce 
 que c'est que de nous / . . . Tlie pity of it ! 
 
 And so no more of sweet Alice with hair so brown. 
 
Ipart Sijtb 
 
 *"Vraiment, la reine aupres d'elle etait laide 
 Quand, vers le soir, 
 Elle passait siir le pont de Tolede 
 
 En corset uoir ! 
 Un cbapelet du temps de Charlemagne 
 Ornait son cou. . . . 
 La vent qui vient a travers la viontagne 
 Me rendra foil ! 
 
 "'Dausez, chantez, villageois ! la null tombe. . . 
 
 Sabine, un jour, 
 A tout donne — sa beaute de colombe, 
 
 Et son amour — 
 Pour I'anneau d'or du Comte de Soldagne, 
 
 Pour un bijou. . 
 La vent qui vient a tracers la inantugne 
 
 M'a rendu fou !'" 
 
 Behold our three musketeers of the brush once more 
 reunited in Paris, famous, after long years. 
 
 In emulation of the good Dumas, we will call it 
 " cinq ans apres." It was a little more. 
 
 Taffy stands for Porthos and Athos rolled into one, 
 since he is big and good-natured, and strong enough 
 to " assommer un homme d'un coup de poing," and also 
 stately and solemn, of aristocratic and romantic ap- 
 pearance, and not too fat — not too much ongbong- 
 pwang, as the Laird called it — and also he does not 
 dislike a bottle of wine, or even two, and looks as if 
 he had a history. 
 
291 
 
 The Laird, of course, is d' Artagnan, since he sells his 
 pictures well, and by the time we are writing of has 
 already become an Associate of the Royal Academy ; 
 like Quentin Durward, this d' Artagnan was a Scots- 
 man: 
 
 " Ah, was na he a Roguy, this piper of Dundee 1" 
 
 And Little Billee, the dainty friend of duchesses, 
 must stand for Aramis, I fear ! It will not do to push 
 the simile too far ; besides, unlike the good Dumas, 
 one has a conscience. One does not play ducks and 
 drakes with historical facts, or tamper with historical 
 personages. And if Athos, Porthos & Co. are not 
 historical by this time, I should like to know who 
 are! 
 
 Well, so are Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee — toict 
 ce qi/Nl y a de plus historlques ! 
 
 Our three friends, well groomed, frock-coated, shirt- 
 collared within an inch of their lives, duly scarfed and 
 scarf-pinned, chimney-pot-hatted, and most beautifully 
 trousered, and bal morally booted, or neatly spatted (or 
 whatever was most correct at the time), are breakfast- 
 ing together on coffee, rolls, and butter at a little round 
 table in the huge court-yard of an immense caravan- 
 serai, paved with asphalt, and covered in at the top 
 with a glazed roof that admits the sun and keeps out 
 the rain — and the air. 
 
 A magnificent old man as big as Taffy, in black 
 velvet coat and breeches and black silk stockings, and 
 a large gold chain round his neck and chest, looks 
 down like Jove from a broad flight of marble steps — 
 
^93 
 
 as though to welcome the coming guests, who arrive 
 in cabs and railway omnibuses through a huge arch- 
 way on the boulevard, or to speed those who part 
 through a lesser archway opening on to a side street. 
 
 " Bon voyage, messieurs et dames !" 
 
 At countless other little tables other voyagers are 
 breakfasting or ordering breakfast ; or, having break- 
 fasted, are smoking and chatting and looking about. 
 It is a babel of tongues — the cheerfulest, busiest, mer- 
 riest scene in the world, apparently the costly place of 
 rendezvous for all wealthy Europe and America ; an 
 atmosphere of bank-notes and gold. 
 
 Already Taffy has recognized (and been recognized 
 by) half a dozen old fellow-Crimeans, of unmistakable 
 military aspect lilce himself; and three canny Scots- 
 men have discreetly greeted the Laird ; and as for Lit- 
 tle Billee, he is constantly jumping up from his break- 
 fast and running to this table or that, drawn by some 
 irresistible British smile of surprised and delighted 
 female recognition: "What, you here? How nice! 
 Come over to hear la Svengali, I suppose." 
 
 At the top of the marble steps is a long terrace, with 
 seats and people sitting, from which tall glazed doors, 
 elaborately carved and gilded, give access to luxurious 
 drawing-rooms, dining-rooms, reading-rooms, lavato- 
 ries, postal and telegraph offices ; and all round and 
 about are huge square green boxes, out of which grow 
 tropical and exotic evergreens all the year round — 
 with beautiful names that I have forgotten. And 
 leaning against these boxes are placards announcing 
 what theatrical or musical entertainments will take 
 place in Paris that day or night ; and the biggest of 
 
2d4 
 
 these placards (and the most fantastically decorated) 
 informs the cosmopolite world that Madame Svengali 
 intends to make her first appearance in Paris that very 
 evening, at nine punctually, in the Cirque des Bashiba- 
 zoucks. Rue St. Honore ! 
 
 Our friends had only arrived the previous night, but 
 they had managed to secure stalls a week beforehand. 
 I^o places were any longer to be got for love or money. 
 Many people had come to Paris on purpose to hear la 
 Svengali — many famous musicians from England and 
 everywhere else — but they would have to wait many 
 days. 
 
 The fame of her was like a rolling snowball that 
 had been rolling all over Europe for the last two 
 years — wherever there Avas snow to be picked up in 
 the shape of golden ducats. 
 
 Their breakfast over, Taffy, the Laird, and Little 
 Billee, cigar in mouth, arm in arm, the huge Taffy in 
 the middle {coinme autrefois), crossed the sunshiny 
 boulevard into the shade, and went down the E-ue de 
 la Paix, through the Place Vendome and the Rue 
 Castiglione to the Rue de Rivoli — quite leisurely, and 
 with a tender midriff-warming sensation of freedom 
 and delight at almost every step. 
 
 Arrived at the corner pastry-cook's, they finished 
 the stumps of their cigars as they looked at the well- 
 remembered show in the window; then they went in 
 and had, Taffy a Madeleine, the Laird a baba, and 
 Little Billee a Savarin — and each, I regret to say, a 
 liqueur-glass of rhum de la Jamdique. 
 
 After this they sauntered through the Tuileries 
 Gardens, and by the quay to their favorite Pont des 
 
295 
 
 Arts, and looked up and down the river — comme 
 autrefois! 
 
 It is an enchanting prospect at any time and under 
 any circumstances ; but on a beautiful morning in mid 
 October, when you haven't seen it for five years, and 
 are still young! and almost every stock and stone that 
 meets your eye, every sound, every scent, has some 
 sweet and subtle reminder for you — 
 
 Let the reader have no fear. I will not attempt to 
 describe it. I shouldn't know where to begin (nor 
 when to leave off !). 
 
 N'ot but what many changes had been wrought ; 
 many old landmarks were missing. And among them, 
 as they found out a few minutes later, and much to 
 their chagrin, the good old Morgue ! 
 
 They inquired of a gardien de la 'pwix^ who told 
 them that a new Morgue — " une bien jolie Morgue, ma 
 foi !" — and much more commodious and comfortable 
 than the old one, had been built beyond Notre Dame, 
 a little to the right. 
 
 " Messieurs devraient voir ca — on y est tres bien !" 
 
 But Notre Dame herself was still there, and la 
 Sainte Chapelle, and Le Pont Neuf, and the equestrian 
 statue of Henri IV. Cest toujours ga / 
 
 And as they gazed and gazed, each framed unto 
 himself, mentall}^, a little picture of the Thames they 
 had just left — and thought of Waterloo Bridge, and 
 St. Paul's, and London — but felt no homesickness 
 whatever, no desire to go back ! 
 
 And looking down the river westward there was 
 but little change. 
 
 On the left-hand side the terraces and garden of the 
 
"a little picture of the Thames" 
 
 Hotel de la Rochemartel (the sculptured entrance of 
 which was in the Rue de Lille) still overtopped the 
 neighboring houses and shaded the qunj with tall 
 trees, whose lightly falling leaves yelloweil tlie pave- 
 ment for at least a hundred yards of frontage — or 
 backage, rather; for this was but tlje rear of that 
 stately palace. 
 
 " I wonder if 1' Zouzou has come into his dukedom 
 yet ?" said Taffy. 
 
 And Taffy the realist, Taffy the modern of moderns, 
 also said many beautiful things about old historical 
 French dukedoms ; which, in spite of their plentiful- 
 ness, were so much more ])icturesque than English 
 ones, and constituted a far more poetical and romantic 
 link with the past; partly on account of their beauti- 
 ful, high-sounding names ! 
 
 " Amaury de Brissac de Eoncesvaulx de la Eoche- 
 martel - Boissegur was a generous mouthful! Why, 
 the very sound of it is redolent of the twelfth cen- 
 tury! Not evea Howard of Norfolk can beat that !" 
 
297 
 
 For Taffy was getting sick of "this ghastly thin- 
 faced time of ours," as he sadly called it (quoting from 
 a strange and very beautiful poem called " Faustine," 
 which had just appeared in the Sjjectator — and which 
 our three enthusiasts already knew by heart), and be- 
 ginning to love all things that were old and regal and 
 rotten and forgotten and of bad repute, and to long 
 to paint them just as they really were. 
 
 "Ah! they managed these things better in France, 
 especially in the twelfth century, and ev^en the thir- 
 teenth !" said the Laird, " Still, Howard of Norfolk 
 isn't bad at a pinch — fote de myoo P^ he continued, 
 winking at Little Billee. And they promised them- 
 selves that they would leave cards on Zouzou, and, 
 if he wasn't a duke, invite him to dinner; and also 
 Dodor, if they could manage to find him. 
 
 Then along the quay and up the Rue de Seine, and 
 by well -remembered little mystic ways to the old 
 studio in the Place St. Anatole des Arts. 
 
 Here they found many changes : A row of new 
 houses on the north side, by Baron Haussmann — the 
 well-named ; a boulevard was being constructed right 
 through the place ; but the old house had been re- 
 spected, and, looking up, they saw the big north 
 window of their good old abode blindless and blank 
 and black but for a white placard in the middle of it 
 with the words : "A louer. Un atelier, et une chambre 
 a coucher." 
 
 They entered the court-yard through the little door 
 in the porte cochere, and beheld Madame Vinard 
 standing on the step of her loge, her arms akimbo, 
 giving orders to her husband — who was sawing logs 
 
298 
 
 for firewood, as usual at that time of the year — and 
 telling him. he was the most helpless log of the 
 lot. 
 
 She gave them one look, threw up her arms, and 
 rushed at them, saying, " Ah, mon Dieu ! les trois 
 Angliches !" 
 
 And they could not have complained of any lack of 
 warmth in her greeting, or in Monsieur Vinard's. 
 
 " Ah ! mais quel bonheur de vous revoir ! Et comme 
 vous avez bonne mine, tons ! Et Monsieur Litrebili, 
 done ! il a grandi !" etc., etc. " Mais v^ous allez boire 
 la goutte avant tout — vite, Vinard ! Le ratafia de 
 cassis que Monsieur Durien nous a envoye la semaine 
 derniere !" 
 
 And they were taken into the loge and made free 
 of it — welcomed like prodigal sons ; a fresh bottle of 
 black-currant brandy was tapped, and did duty for the 
 fatted calf. It was an ovation, and made quite a stir 
 in the quartier. 
 
 Le Retour des trois Angliches — cinq ans ajtres! 
 
 She told them all the news : about Bouchardy ; 
 Papelard ; Jules Guinot, who was now in tlie Minis- 
 tere de la Guerre ; Barizel, who had given up the arts 
 and gone into his father's business (umbrellas); Durien, 
 who had married six months ago, and had a superb 
 atelier in the Rue Taitbout, and was coining money ; 
 about her own family — Aglae, who was going to be 
 married to the son of the charbonnier at the corner 
 of the Rue de la Canicule — " un bon mariage ; bien 
 solide !" Niniche, who was studying the piano at 
 the Conservatoire, and had won the silver medal ; Isi- 
 dore, who, alas! had gone to the bad — "perdu par les 
 
f emraes ! un si joli gar9on, vous concevez ! 9a ne lui 
 a pas porte bonheur, par exemple !" And yet she was 
 proud ! and said his father would never have had the 
 pluck ! 
 
 " A dix-huit ans, pensez done ! 
 
 " And that good Monsieur Carrel ; he is dead, you 
 know ! Ah, messieurs savaient ya ? Yes, he died at 
 Dieppe, his natal town, during the winter, from the 
 consequences of an indigestion — que voulez-vous ! He 
 always had the stomach so feeble ! . . . Ah ! the beau- 
 tiful interment, messieurs ! Five thousand people, in 
 spite of the rain ! Car il pleuvait averse ! And M. 
 le Maire and his adjunct walking behind the hearse, 
 and the gendarmerie and tlie douaniers, and a batail- 
 lon of the douzieme chasseurs-a pied, with their music, 
 and all the sapper -pumpers, en grande tenue with 
 their beautiful brass helmets ! All the town was 
 there, following : so there was nobody left to see the 
 procession go by ! q'c'etait beau ! Mon Dieu, q'c'etait 
 beau! c'que j'ai pleure, d'voir 9a! n'est-ce-pas, Vi- 
 nard ?" 
 
 " Dame, oui, ma biche ! j'crois ben ! It might have 
 been Monsieur le Maire himself that one was interring 
 in person !" 
 
 " Ah, 9a ! voyons, Vinard ; thou'rt not going to com- 
 pare the Maire of Dieppe to a painter like Monsieur 
 Carrel?" 
 
 " Certainly not, ma biche ! But still, M. Carrel was 
 a great man all the same, in his way. Besides, I 
 wasn't tliere — nor thou either, as to that !" 
 
 "Mon Dieu! comme il est idiot, ce Vinard — of a 
 stupidity to cut with a knife ! Why, thou might'st 
 
300 
 
 almost be a Mayor thyself, sacred imbecile that thou 
 art !" 
 
 And an animated discussion arose between husband 
 and wife as to the respective merits of a country 
 mayor on one side and a famous painter and member 
 of the Institute on the other, during which Us trois 
 Angllches were left out in the cold. When Madame 
 Vinard had sufficiently routed her husband, which 
 did not take very long, she turned to them again, and 
 told them that she had started a magasin de hric- 
 d-hrac^ " vous verres 9a !" 
 
 Yes, the studio had been to let for three months. 
 "Would they like to see it ? Here were the keys. They 
 would, of course, prefer to see it by themselves, alone; 
 " je comprends 9a ! et vous verrez ce que vous verrez!" 
 Then they must come and drink once more again the 
 drop, and inspect her onagasin de hric-d-hrac. 
 
 So they went up, all three, and let themselves into 
 the old place where they had been so happy — and one 
 of them for a while so miserable ! 
 
 It was changed indeed. 
 
 Bare of all furniture, for one thing ; shabby and un- 
 swept, with a pathetic air of dilapidation, spoliation, 
 desecration, and a musty, shut-up smell ; the window 
 so dirty you could hardly see the new houses oppo- 
 site ; the floor a disgrace ! 
 
 All over the walls Avere caricatures in charcoal and 
 white chalk, Avith more or less incomprehensible le- 
 gends; very vulgar and trivial and coarse, some of 
 them, and pointless for trois Angliclies. 
 
 But among these (touching to relate) they found, 
 under a square of plate-glass that had been fixed on 
 
* [A y w u w w y •? 
 
302 
 
 the wall by means of an oak frame, Little Billee's old 
 black-and-white-and-red chalk sketch of Trilby's left 
 foot, as fresh as if it had been done only yesterday ! 
 Over it was written: " Souvenir de la Grande Trilby, 
 par W. B, (Litrebili)." And beneath, carefully en- 
 grossed on imperishable parchment, and pasted on the 
 glass, the following stanzas : 
 
 " Pauvre Trilby — la belle et bonne et chere ! 
 Je suis son pied. Devine qui voudra 
 Quel tendre ami, la cberissant naguere, 
 Encadra d'elle (et d'un amour sincere) 
 
 Ce souvenir charmant qu'ua caprice inspira — 
 Qu'un souffle emportera ! 
 
 "J'etais jumeau : qu'est devenu mon f rfire ? 
 
 Helas ! Helas ! L'Amour nous egara. 
 
 L'feternite nous unira, j'espere ; 
 
 Et nous ferons comme autrefois la paire 
 Au fond d'un lit bien chaste oil nul ne troublera 
 Trilby — qui dormira. 
 
 "0 tendre ami, sans nous qu'allez-vous faire ? 
 La porte est close ou Trilby dcmeura. 
 Le Paradis est loin . . . et sur la terre 
 (Qui nous fut douce et lui sera legere) 
 
 Pour trouver nos pareils, si bien qu'on clierchera — 
 Beau chercher Ton aura !" 
 
 Taffy drew a long breath into his manly bosom, and 
 kept it there as he read this characteristic French dog- 
 gerel (for so he chose to call this touching little sym- 
 phony in ere and /•«). His huge frame thrilled with 
 tenderness and pity and fond remembrance, and he 
 said to himself (letting out his breath) : " Dear, dear 
 Trilby ! Ah ! if you had only cared for me, /wouldn't 
 
•'PAUTRE trilby' 
 
304 
 
 have let you give me up— not for ^ny one on earth. 
 You were the mate for me /" 
 
 And that, as the reader has guessed long ago, was 
 big Taffy's " history," 
 
 The Laird was also deeply touched, and could not 
 speak. Had lie been in love with Trilby, too ? Had 
 he ever been in love with any one ? 
 
 He couldn't say. But he thought of Trilby's sweet- 
 ness and unselfishness, her gayety, her innocent kiss- 
 ings and caressings, her drollery and frolicsome grace, 
 her way of filling whatever place she was in with her 
 presence, the charming sight and the genial sound of 
 her; and felt that no girl, no woman, no lady he had 
 ever seen yet was a match for this poor waif and 
 stray, this long-legged, cancan-dancing, quartier-latin 
 grisette, blanchisseuse de fin, "and Heaven knows 
 what besides !'' 
 
 " Hang it all !" he mentally ejaculated, " I wish to 
 goodness I'd married her myself f^ 
 
 Little Billee said nothing either. He felt unhappier 
 than he had ever once felt for five long years — to 
 think that he could gaze on such a memento as this, a 
 thing so strongly personal to himself, with dry eyes 
 and a quiet pulse ! and he unemotionally, dispassion- 
 ately, wished himself dead and buried for at least the 
 thousand and first time ! 
 
 All three possessed casts of Trilby's hands and feet 
 and photographs of herself. But nothing so charm- 
 ingly suggestive of Trilby as this little masterpiece of 
 a true artist, this happy fluke of a happy moment. It 
 was Trilbiness itself, as the Laird thought, and should 
 not be suffered to perish. 
 
305 
 
 They took the keys back to Madame Vinard in si- 
 lence. 
 
 She said : " Yous avez vu — n'est-ce pas, messieurs ? — 
 le pied de Trilby ! c'est bien gentil ! C'est Monsieur 
 Durien qui a fait mettre le verre, quand vous etes par- 
 tis; et Monsieur Guinot qui a compose Vepitaj^he. 
 Pauvre Trilby ! qu'est-ce qu'elle est devenue ! comma 
 elle etait bonne fille, hein ? et si belle ! et comme elle 
 etait vive elle etait vive elle etait vive ! Et comme 
 elle vous aimait tons bien — et surtout Monsieur Litre- 
 bili — n'est-ce pas?" 
 
 Then she insisted on giving them each another liq- 
 ueur-glass of Durien's ratafia de cassis, and took them 
 to see her collection of bric-a-brac across the yard, a 
 gorgeous show, and explained everything about it — 
 how she had begun in quite a small way, but was mak- 
 inoj it a bio: business. 
 
 "Yoyez cette pendule! It is of the time of Louis 
 Onze, who gave it with his own hands to Madame de 
 Pompadour (!). I bought it at a sale in — " 
 
 " Combiang^' said the Laird. 
 
 "C'est cent-cinquante francs, monsieur — c'est bien 
 bon marche — une veritable occasion, et — " 
 
 " Je prong !" said the Laird, meaning " I take it !" 
 
 Then she showed them a beautiful brocade gown 
 " which she had picked up at a bargain at — •" 
 
 " Combiang?" said the Laird. 
 
 " Ah, 9a, c'est trois cents francs, monsieur. Mais — " 
 
 " Je prong !" said the Laird. 
 
 " Et voici les souliers qui vont avec, et que — " 
 
 "Jepr— " 
 
 But here Taffy took the Laird by the arm and 
 20 
 
806 
 
 dragged him by force out of this too seductive siren's 
 cave. 
 
 The Laird told her where to send his purchases; 
 and with many expressions of love and good-will on 
 both sides, they tore themselves away from Monsieur 
 et Madame Vinard. 
 
 The Laird, however, rushed back for a minute, and 
 hurriedly whispered to Madame Vinard : " Oh — er — 
 le piay de Trilby — sur le mure, vous savvy — avec le 
 verre et toot le reste — coopy le mure — comprenny ? . . , 
 Combiang ?" 
 
 "Ah, monsieur!" said Madame Vinard — "c'est un 
 pen difficile, vous savez — couper un mur comme ya! 
 On parlera au proprietaire si vous voulez, et 9a pour- 
 rait peut-etre s'arrangei", si c'est en bois ! seulement il 
 fau— " 
 
 " Je prong !" said the Laird, and waved his hand in 
 farewell. 
 
 They went up the Rue Vieille des Mauvais Ladres, 
 and found that about twenty yards of a high wall 
 had been pulled down — just at the bend where the 
 Laird had seen the last of Trilby, as she turned round 
 and kissed her hand to him — and they beheld, within, 
 a quaint and ancient long -neglected garden; a gray 
 old garden, with tall, warty, black -boled trees, and 
 damp, green, mossy paths that lost themselves under 
 the brown and yellow leaves and mould and muck 
 which had drifted into heaps here and there, the ac- 
 cumulation of years — a queer old faded pleasance, with 
 wasted bowers and dilapidated carved stone benches 
 and weather-beaten discolored marble statues — nose- 
 less, armless, earless fauns and hamadryads ! And at 
 
307 
 
 the end of it, in a tumble-down state of utter ruin, a 
 still inhabited little house, with shabby blinds and 
 window -curtains, and broken window-panes mended 
 with brown paper — a Pavilon de Flore, that must 
 have been quite beautiful a hundred 3'ears ago — the 
 once mysterious love-resort of long-buried abbes with 
 light hearts, and well-forgotten lords and ladies gay — 
 red-heeled, patched, powdered, frivolous, and shame- 
 less, but oh ! how charming to the imagination of the 
 
 " • JE PKONG 1' " 
 
308 
 
 nineteenth century ! And right through the ragged 
 lawn (where lay, upset in tlie long dewy grass, a 
 broken doll's perambulator by a tattered Punchinello) 
 went a desecrating track made by cart-wheels and 
 horses' hoofs; and this, no doubt, was to be a new 
 street — perhaps, as Taffy suggested, " La Rue Neuve 
 des Mauvais Ladres !" (The New Street of the Bad 
 Lepers !). 
 
 "Ah, Taffy!" sententiously opined the Laird, with 
 his usual wink at Little Billee, " I've no doubt the 
 old lepers were the best, bad as they were !" 
 
 " I'm quite sure of it !" said Taffy, with sad and 
 sober conviction and a long-drawn sigh. " I only wish 
 I had a chance of painting one — just as he really 
 was !" 
 
 How often they had speculated on what lay hidden 
 behind that Jofty old brick wall ! and now this melan- 
 choly little peep into the once festive past, the touch- 
 ing sight of this odd old poverty-stricken abode of 
 Heaven knows what present grief and desolation, 
 which a few strokes of the pickaxe had laid bare, 
 seemed to chime in .with their own gray mood that 
 had been so bright and sunny an hour ago ; and they 
 went on their way quite dejectedly, for a stroll through 
 the Luxembourg Gallery and Gardens. 
 
 The same people seemed to be still copying the 
 same pictures in the long, quiet, genial room, so pleas- 
 antly smeUing of oil-paint — Rosa Bonheur's " Labou- 
 rage Nivernais " — Hebert's " Malaria " — Couture's 
 " Decadent Romans.'' 
 
 And in the formal dusty gardens were the same pi- 
 oupious and zouzous still walking with the same nou- 
 
309 
 
 nous, or sitting by tiieir sides on benches by formal 
 ponds with gold and silver fish in them — and just the 
 same old couples petting the same toutous and lou- 
 lous !* 
 
 Then thsy thought they would go and lunch at le 
 pere Trin's — the Restaurant de la Couronne, in the 
 Rue du Luxembourg — for the sake of auld lang syne ! 
 But when they got there the well-remembered fumes of 
 that humble refectory, which had once seemed not un- 
 a})petizing, turned their stomachs. So they contented 
 themselves with warmly greeting le pere Trin, wdio 
 was quite overjoj^ed to see them again, and anxious to 
 turn the whole establishment topsy-turvy that he 
 might entertain such guests as they deserved. 
 
 Then the Laird suggested an omelet at the Cafe de 
 I'Otleon. But Taffy said, in his masterful way, " Damn 
 the Cafe de l\:>deon !" 
 
 And hailing a little open fly, they drove to Ledo- 
 yen's, or some such place, in the Champs Elysees, 
 where they feasted as became three prosperous Britons 
 out for a holiday in Paris — three irresponsible mus- 
 keteers, lords of themselves and Lutetia, heati possi- 
 dentes ! — and afterwards had themselves driven in an 
 open carriage and pair through the Bois de Boulogne 
 to the fete de St. Cloud (or what still remained of it, 
 for it lasts six weeks), the scene of so many of Dodor's 
 and Zouzou's exploits in past years, and found it more 
 
 * Glossary.— 'Piowp'xon {alias pousse - caillou, alias tourlourou) — 
 a private soldier of the line. Zouzou — a Zouave. Nounou — a wet- 
 nurse with a pretty ribboned cap and long streamers. Toutou — a 
 nondeseript French lapdog, of no breed known to Englishmen (a 
 regular little beast !) Loulou— a Pomeranian dog — not much better. 
 
310 
 
 amusing than the Luxembourg Gardens ; the lively 
 and irrepressible spirit of Dodor seemed to pervade it 
 still. 
 
 But it doesn't want the presence of a Dodor to make 
 the blue-bloused sons of the Gallic people (and its 
 neatly shod, white-capped daughters) delightful to 
 watch as they take their pleasure. And the Laird 
 (thinking perhaps of Ilampstead Heath on an Easter 
 Monday) must not be blamed for once more quoting 
 his favorite phrase — the pretty little phrase with 
 which the most humorous and least exemplary of 
 British parsons began his famous journey to France, 
 
 When they came back to the hotel to dress and 
 dine, the Laird found he wanted a pair of white gloves 
 for the concert — "Oon pair de gong blong," as he 
 called it — and they w^alked along the bouleva.rds till 
 they came to a haberdasher's shop of very good and 
 prosperous appearance, and, going in, were received 
 graciously by the " patron," a portly little bourgeois, 
 who waved them to a tall and aristocratic and very 
 well dressed young commis behind the counter, saying, 
 " Une paire de gants blancs pour monsieur." 
 
 And what was the surprise of our three friends in 
 recognizino: Dodor ! 
 
 The gay .Dodor, Dodor I'irresistible, quite unem- 
 barrassed by his position, was exuberant in his delight 
 at seeing them again, and introduced them to the pa- 
 tron and his wife and daughter, Monsieur, Madame, 
 and Mademoiselle Passefil. And it soon became pret- 
 ty evident that, in spite of his humble employment in 
 that house, he w^as a great favorite in that famil}^ and 
 especially with mademoiselle. 
 
inis^r^ 
 
 5 i 
 
312 
 
 Indeed, Monsieur Passefil invited our three heroes 
 to stay and dine then and there ; but they compro- 
 mised matters by asking Dodor to come and dine with 
 them at the hotel, and he accepted with alacrity. 
 
 Thanks to Dodor, the dinner was a very lively one, 
 and they soon forgot the regretful impressions of the 
 day. 
 
 They learned that he hadn't got a penny in the world, 
 and had left the army, and had for two years kept the 
 books at le pere Passefil's and served his customers, 
 and won his good opinion and his wife's, and espe- 
 cially his daughter's ; and that soon he was to be not 
 only his employer's partner, but his son-in-law ; and 
 that, in spite of his irapecuniosity, he had managed to 
 impress them with the fact that in marrying a Rigolot 
 de Lafarce she was making a very splendid match in- 
 deed ! 
 
 His brother-in-law, the Honorable Jack Reeve, had 
 long cut him for a bad lot. But his sister, after a 
 while, had made up her mind that to marry Mile. 
 Passefil wasn't the worst he could do ; at all events, 
 it would keep him out of England, and that was a 
 comfort! And passing through Paris, she had actu- 
 ally called on the Passefil family, and they had fallen 
 prostrate before such splendor; and no wonder, for 
 Mrs. Jack Reeve was one of the most beautiful, ele- 
 gant, and fashionable women in London, the smartest 
 of the smart. 
 
 " And how about 1' Zouzou ?" asked Little Billee. 
 
 " Ah, old Gontran ! I don't see much of him. We 
 no longer quite move in the same circles, you know ; 
 not that he's proud, or me either ! but he's a sub-lieu- 
 
313 
 
 tenant in the Guides — an officer ! Besides, his broth- 
 er's dead, and he's the Due de la Rochemartel, and a 
 special pet of the Empress ; he makes her laugh more 
 than anybody! He's looking out for the biggest 
 heiress he can find, and he's pretty safe to catch her, 
 with such a name as that! In fact, they say he's 
 caught her already — Miss Lavinia Hunks, of Chicago. 
 Twenty million dollars! — at least, so the Figaro says!" 
 Then he gave them news of other old friends ; and 
 they did not part till it was time for them to go to 
 the Cirque des Bashibazoucks, and after they had ar- 
 ranged to dine with his future family on the following 
 day. 
 
 In the Rue St. Honore was a long double file of 
 cabs and carriages slowly moving along to the portals 
 of that huge hall, Le Cirque des Bashibazoucks. Is it 
 there still, I wonder? I don't mind betting not ! Just 
 at this period of the Second Empire there was a mania 
 for demolition and remolition (if there is such a word), 
 and I have no doubt my Parisian readers would search 
 the Rue St. Honore for the Salle des Bashibazoucks in 
 vain! 
 
 Our friends were shown to their stalls, and looked 
 round in surprise. This was before the days of the 
 Albert Hall, and they had never been in such a big 
 place of the kind before, or one so regal in aspect, so 
 gorgeously imperial with white and gold and crimson 
 velvet, so dazzling with light, so crammed with people 
 from floor to roof, and cramming itself still. 
 
 A platform carpeted with crimson cloth had been 
 erected in front of the gates where the horses had 
 
314 
 
 once used to come in, and their fair riders, and the 
 two jolly English clowns ; and the beautiful nobleman 
 with the long frock-coat and brass buttons, and soft 
 high boots, and four-in-hand whip — " la chambri^re." 
 
 In front of this was a lower stand for the orchestra. 
 The circus itself was filled with stalls — stalles d'or- 
 chestre. A pair of crimson curtains hid the entrance 
 to the platform at the back, and by each of these 
 stood a small page, ready to draw it aside and admit 
 the diva. 
 
 The entrance to the orchestra was by a small door 
 under the platform, and some thirty or forty chairs 
 and music-stands, grouped around the conductor's es- 
 trade, were waiting for the band. 
 
 Little Billee looked round, and recognized many 
 countrymen and countrywomen of his own — many 
 great musical celebrities especially, whom he had often 
 met in London. Tiers upon tiers of people rose up all 
 round in a widening circle, and lost themselves in a 
 dazy mist of light at the top — it was like a picture by 
 Martin ! In the imperial box were the English ambas- 
 sador and his family, with an august British personage 
 sitting in the middle, in front, his broad blue ribbon 
 across his breast and his opera-glass to his royal eyes. 
 
 Little Billee had never felt so excited, so exhilarated 
 by such a show before, nor so full of eager anticipa- 
 tion. He looked at his programme, and saw that the 
 Hungarian "band (the first that had yet appeared in 
 western Europe, I believe) would play an overture of 
 gypsy dances. Then Madame Svengali would sing 
 " un air connu, sans accompagnement," and afterwards 
 other airs, including the " Nussbaum " of Schumann 
 
315 
 
 (for the first time in Paris, it seemed). Then a rest of 
 ten minutes ; then more csardas ; then the diva would 
 sing " Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre," of all things in 
 the world ! and finish up with " un impromptu de 
 Chopin, sans paroles." 
 
 Truly a somewhat incon- 
 gruous bill of fare ! 
 
 Close on the stroke of nine 
 the musicians came in and 
 took their seats. They were 
 dressed in the foreign hussar 
 uniform that has now become 
 so familiar. The first violin 
 had scarcely sat down before 
 our friends recognized in him 
 their old friend Gecko. 
 
 Just as the clock struck, 
 Svengali, in irreproachable 
 evening dress, tall and stout gecko 
 
 and quite splendid in appear- 
 ance, notwithstanding his long black mane (which 
 had been curled), took his place at his desk. Our 
 friends would have known him at a glance, in spite 
 of the wonderful alteration time and prosperity had 
 wrought in his outward man. 
 
 He bowed right and left to the thunderous applause 
 that greeted him, gave his three little baton-taps, and 
 the lovely music began at once. We have grown ac- 
 customed to strains of this kind during the last twenty 
 years ; but they were new then, and their strange se- 
 duction was a surprise as well as an enchantment. 
 
 Besides, no such band as Svengali's had ever been 
 
316 
 
 heard ; and in listening to this overture the immense 
 crowd ahnost forgot that it Avas a mere preparation 
 for a great musical event, and tried to encore it. But 
 Svengali merely turned round and bowed — there were 
 to be no encores that night. 
 
 Then a moment of silence and breathless suspense — 
 curiosity on tiptoe ! 
 
 Then the two little page-boys each drew a silken 
 rope, and the curtains parted and looped themselves 
 up on each side symmetrically ; and a tall female figure 
 appeared, clad in what seemed like a classical dress of 
 cloth of gold, embroidered with garnets and beetles' 
 wings ; her snowy arms and shoulders bare, a gold 
 coronet of stars on her head, her thick light brown 
 hair tied behind and flowing all down her back to 
 nearly her knees, like those ladies in hair -dressers' 
 shops who sit with their backs to the plate-glass win- 
 dows to advertise the merits of some particular hair- 
 wash. 
 
 She walked slowly down to the front, her hands 
 hanging at her sides in quite a simple fashion, and 
 made a slight inclination of her head and body tow- 
 ards the imperial box, and then to right and left. 
 Her lips and cheeks were rouged ; her dark level eye- 
 brows nearly met at the bridge of her short high nose. 
 Through her parted lips you could see her large glis- 
 tening white teeth ; her gray eyes looked straight at 
 Svengali. 
 
 Her face was thin, and had a rather haggard ex- 
 pression, in spite of its artificial freshness ; but its con- 
 tour was divine, and its character so tender, so humble, 
 so touchingly simple and sweet, that one melted at the 
 
317 
 
 sight of her. No such magnificent or seductive appa- 
 rition has ever been seen before or since on any stage 
 or platform — not even Miss Ellen Terry as the priest- 
 ess of Artemis in the late Laureate's play, " The 
 Cup." 
 
 The house rose at her as she came down to the front ; 
 and she bowed again to right and left, and put her hand 
 to her heart quite simply and with a most winning 
 natural gesture, an adorable gaucherie — like a graceful 
 and unconscious school -girl, quite innocent of stage 
 deportment. 
 
 It was Trilby ! 
 
 Trilby the tone-deaf, who couldn't sing one single 
 note in tune! Trilby, who couldn't tell a C from 
 an F ! ! 
 
 What was going to happen ! 
 
 Our three friends were almost turned to stone in 
 the immensity of their surprise. 
 
 Yet the big Taffy was trembling all over ; the Laird's 
 jaw had all but fallen on to his chest ; Little Billee was 
 staring, staring his ej'^es almost out of his head. There 
 was something, to them, so strange and uncanny about 
 it all ; so oppressive, so anxious, so momentous ! 
 
 The applause had at last subsided. Trilby stood 
 with her hands behind her, one foot (the left one) on a 
 little stool that had been left there on purpose, her lips 
 parted, her eyes on Svengali's, ready to begin. 
 
 He gave his three beats, and the band struck a chord. 
 Then, at another beat from him, but in her direction, 
 she began, without the slightest appearance of effort, 
 without any accompaniment whatever, he still beating 
 
318 
 
 time — conducting her, in fact, just as if she had been 
 an orchestra herself : 
 
 "Au clair de la lune, 
 
 Moa ami Pierrot ! 
 Pr8te-moi ta plume 
 
 Pour ecrire un mot. 
 Ma chandelle est morte . . . 
 
 Je n'ai plus de feu ! 
 Ouvre-moi ta porta 
 
 Pour I'amour de Dieu 1" 
 
 This was the absurd old nursery rhyme with which 
 la Svengali chose to make her debut before the most 
 critical audience in the world ! She sang it three times 
 over — the same verse. There is but one. 
 
 The first time she sang it without any expression 
 whatever — not the slightest. Just the words and the 
 tune ; in the middle of her voice, and not loud at all ; 
 just as a child sings who is thinking of something else; 
 or just as a young French mother sings who is darning 
 socks by a cradle, and rocking her baby to sleep with 
 her foot. 
 
 But her voice was so immense in its softness, rich- 
 ness, freshness, that it seemed to be pouring itself out 
 from all round ; its intonation absolutely, mathemati- 
 cally pure ; one felt it to be not only faultless, but 
 infaUible; and the seduction, the novelty of it, the 
 strangely sympathetic quality ! How can one describe 
 the quality of a peach or a nectarine to those who 
 have only known apples ? 
 
 Until la Svengali appeared, the world had only 
 known apples — Catalanis, Jenny Linds, Grisis, Albonis, 
 Pattis! The best apples that can. be, for sure — but 
 still only apples ! 
 
AU CLAIK DE LA LUNE' 
 
820 
 
 If she had spread a pair of large white wings and 
 gracefully fluttered up to the roof and perched upon 
 the chandelier, she could not have produced a greater 
 sensation. The like of that voice has never been heard, 
 nor ever will be again, A woman archangel might 
 sing like that, or some enchanted princess out of a 
 fairy-tale. 
 
 Little Billee had already dropped his face into his 
 hands and hid his eyes in his pocket-handkerchief ; a 
 big tear had fallen on to Taffy's left whisker ; the Laird 
 was trying hard to keep his tears back. 
 
 She sang the verse a second time, with but little 
 added expression and no louder ; but with a sort of 
 breathy widening of her voice that made it like a broad 
 heavenly smile of universal motherhood turned into 
 sound. One felt all the genial gayety and grace and 
 impishness of Pierrot and Columbine idealized into 
 frolicsome beauty and holy innocence, as though they 
 were performing for the saints in Paradise — a baby 
 Columbine, with a cherub for clown ! The dream of 
 it all came over you for a second or two — a revelation 
 of some impossible golden age — priceless — never to be 
 foro^otten ! How on earth did she do it ? 
 
 Little Billee had lost all control over himself, and 
 was shaking with his suppressed sobs — Little Billee, 
 who hadn't shed a single tear for five long years! 
 Half the people in the house were in tears, but tears of 
 sheer delight, of delicate inner laughter. 
 
 Then she came back to earth, and saddened and 
 veiled and darkened her voice as she sang the verse for 
 the third time ; and it was a great and sombre tragedy, 
 too deep for any more tears ; and somehow or other 
 
331 
 
 poor Columbine, forlorn and betrayed and dying, out 
 in the cold at midnight — sinking down to hell, per- 
 haps — was making her last frantic appeal ! It was no 
 longer Pierrot and Columbine — it was Marguerite — 
 it was Faust ! It was the most terrible and pathetic 
 of all possible human tragedies, but expressed with no 
 dramatic or histrionic exaggeration of any sort; by 
 mere tone, slight, subtle changes in the quality of the 
 sound — too quick and elusive to be taken count of, but 
 to be felt with, oh, what poignant sympathy ! 
 
 When the song was over the applause did not come 
 immediately, and she waited with her kind wide smile, 
 as if she were well accustomed to wait like this ; and 
 then the storm began, and grew and spread and rattled 
 and echoed — voice, hands, feet, sticks, umbrellas ! — 
 and down came the bouquets, which the little page- 
 boys picked up ; and Trilb}'" bowed to front and right 
 and left in her simple dehonnaire fashion. It was her 
 usual triumph. It had never failed, whatever the au- 
 dience, whatever the country, whatever the song. 
 
 Little Billee didn't applaud. He sat with his head 
 in his hands, his shoulders still heaving. He believed 
 himself to be fast asleep and in a dream, and was try- 
 ing his utmost not to wake ; for a great happiness was 
 his. It was one of those nights to be marked with a 
 white stone! 
 
 As the first bars of the song came pouring out of 
 her parted lips (whose shape he so well remembered), 
 and her dovelike eyes looked straight over Svengali's 
 head, straight in his own direction — nay, at him— 
 something melted in his brain, and all his long-lost 
 power of loving came back with a rush. 
 
 21 
 
333 
 
 It was like the sudden curing of a deafness that has 
 been lasting for years. The doctor blows through 
 your nose into your Eustachian tube with a little 
 India-rubber machine ; some obstacle gives way, there 
 
 is a snap in your head, 
 and straightway you 
 liear better than you had 
 ever heard in all your 
 life, almost too well ; 
 and all your life is once 
 more changed for you ! 
 At length he sat up 
 again, in the middle of 
 la Sveno-ali's sino-ino- oi 
 the " Nussbaum," and 
 saw her; and saw the 
 Laird sitting by him, 
 and Taffy, their e\^es 
 riveted on Trilby, and 
 knew for certain that it 
 was no dream this time, 
 and his joy was almost 
 a pain! 
 
 She sang the " Nuss- 
 baum " (to its heavenly 
 accompaniment) as sim- 
 ply as she had sung the 
 previous song. Every 
 separate note was a 
 highly finished gem of 
 "ocTRE-Moi TA poRTK sounQ, Imkecl to tne 
 
 POUR l'amour de DiEtj !" ncxt by a magic bond. 
 
333 
 
 Tou did not require to be a lover of music to fall be- 
 neath the spell of such a voice as that ; the mere me- 
 lodic phrase had all but ceased to matter. Her phras- 
 ing, consummate as it was, was as simple as a child's. 
 
 It was as if she said : " See ! what does the composer 
 count for ? Here is about as beautiful a song as was 
 ever written, with beautiful words to match, and the 
 words have been made French for you by one of your 
 smartest poets ! But what do the words signify, any 
 more than the tune, or even the language ? The ' Nuss- 
 baum' is neither better nor worse than 'Mon ami 
 Pierrot ' when / am the singer ; for I am Svengali ; 
 and you shall hear nothing, see nothing, think of noth- 
 ing but Svengali, Svengali, Svengali /" 
 
 It was the apotheosis of voice and virtuosity ! It 
 was "il bel canto" come back to earth after a hun- 
 dred years — the bel canto of Vivarelli, let us say, 
 who sang the same song every night to the same King 
 of Spain for a quarter of a century, and was rewarded 
 with a dukedom, and wealth • beyond the dreams of 
 avarice. 
 
 And, indeed, here was this immense audience, made 
 up of the most cynically critical people in the world, 
 and the most anti-German, assisting with rapt ears and 
 streaming eyes at the imagined spectacle of a simple 
 German damsel, a Miidchen, a Friiulein, just "ver- 
 lobte " — a future Hausfrau — sitting under a walnut- 
 tree in some suburban garden — a Berlin ! — and around 
 her her family and their friends, probably drinking 
 beer and smoking long porcelain pipes, and talking 
 politics or business, and cracking innocent elaborate 
 old German jokes ; with bated breath, lest they should 
 
334 
 
 disturb her maiden dream of love ! And all as though 
 it were a scene in Elysium, and the Friiulein a nymph 
 of many - f ountained Ida, and her people Olympian 
 gods and goddesses. 
 
 And such, indeed, they were when Trilby sang of 
 them! 
 
 After this, when the long, frantic applause had sub- 
 sided, she made a gracious bow to the royal British 
 opera-glass (which bad never left her face), and sang 
 " Ben Bolt " in English ! 
 
 And then Little Billee remembered there was such 
 a person as Svengali in the world, and recalled his 
 little flexible flageolet ! 
 
 " That is howl teach Gecko; that is how I teach la 
 bedite Honorine ; that is how I teach il bel canto. . . . 
 It was lost, il bel canto — and I found it in a dream — 
 I, Svengali !" 
 
 And his old cosmic vision of the beauty and sadness 
 of things, the very heart of them, and their pathetic 
 evanescence, came back with a tenfold clearness — that 
 heavenly glimpse beyond the veil! And with it a 
 crushing sense of his own infinitesimal significance by 
 the side of this glorious pair of artists, one of whom 
 had been his friend and the other his love — a love who 
 had offered to be his humble mistress and slave, not 
 feeling herself good enough to be his wife ! 
 
 It made him sick and faint to remember, and filled 
 him with hot shame, and then and there his love for 
 Trilby became as that of a dog for its master ! 
 
 She sang once more — " Chanson de Printemps," by 
 Gounod (who was present, and seemed very hysteri- 
 cal), and the first part of the concert was over, and 
 
325 
 
 people had time to draw breath and talk over this new 
 wonder, this revelation of what the human voice could 
 achieve; and an immense hum filled the hall — aston- 
 ishment, enthusiasm, ec- 
 
 static delight ! 
 
 But our three friends 
 found little to say — for 
 what they felt there were 
 as yet no words ! 
 
 "MALBROUCK S'eK VA-t'eN GUKRRE " 
 
 Taffy and the 
 Laird looked at 
 Little B i 1 1 e e, 
 who seemed to 
 be looking in- 
 ward at some 
 transcendent dream of his own; with red eyes, and 
 his face all pale and drawn, and his nose very pink, 
 and rather thicker than usual; and the dream ap- 
 peared to be out of the common blissful, though his 
 
326 
 
 eyes were swimming still, for his smile was almost id- 
 iotic in its rapture ! 
 
 The second part of the concert was still shorter than 
 the first, and created, if possible, a wilder enthusiasm. 
 
 Trilby only sang twice. 
 
 Her first song was " MalbroucR s'en va-t'en guerre." 
 
 She began it quite lightly and merrily, like a jolly 
 march ; in the middle of her voice, which had not as 
 yet revealed any exceptional compass or range. Peo- 
 ple laughed quite frankly at the first verse: 
 
 "Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre — 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ! 
 Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre. . . . 
 Ne sais quand reviendra I 
 Ne sais quand reviendra ! 
 Ne siiis quand reviendra 1" 
 
 The mironton, mirontaine was the very essence of 
 high martial resolve and heroic self-confidence ; one 
 would have led a forlorn hope after hearing it once ! 
 
 "II reviendra-z-3, Paques — 
 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine/ 
 II reviendraz-a Paques. . . . 
 Ou ... a la Trinite !" 
 
 People still laughed, though the mironton, mirontaine 
 betrayed an uncomfortable sense of the dawning of 
 doubts and fears — vague forebodings! 
 
 "La Trinite se passe — 
 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine! 
 La Trinite se passe. . . . 
 Malbrouck ne revient pas I" 
 
327 
 
 And here, especially in the mironton^ mirontaine^ a 
 note of anxiety revealed itself — so poignant, so acutely 
 natural and human, that it became a personal anxiety 
 of one's own, causing the heart to beat, and one's 
 breath was short. 
 
 "Madame a sa tour monte — 
 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ! 
 Madame a sa tour moute, 
 
 Si haul qu'elle pent monter I" 
 
 Oh ! How one's heart went with her ! Anne ! Sis- 
 ter Anne ! Do you see anything? 
 
 "Elle voit do loin sou page — 
 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ! 
 Elle voit de loin son page, 
 Tout de noir liabille 1" 
 
 One is almost sick with the sense of impending 
 calamity — it is all but unbearable ! 
 
 "Mon page — mon beau page! — 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine! 
 Mon page — mon beau page! 
 Quelle nouvellea apportez?"' 
 
 And here Little Billee begins to weep again, and 
 so does everybody else ! The mironton^ 'mirontaine 
 is an agonized wail of suspense — poor bereaved 
 duchess ! — poor Sarah Jennings ! Did it all announce 
 itself to you just like that ? 
 
 All this while the accompaniment had been quite 
 simple — just a few obvious ordinary chords. 
 
 But now, quite suddenly, without a single modula- 
 tion or note of warning, down goes the tune a full 
 
338 
 
 major third, from E to C — into the graver depths of 
 Trilby's great contralto — so solemn and ominous that 
 there is no more weeping, but the flesh creeps; the 
 accompaniment slows and elaborates itself ; the march 
 becomes a funeral march, with muted strings, and 
 quite slowly : 
 
 " Aux nouvelles que j'appoite — 
 Miraiiton, mironton, mirontaiiic ! 
 Aux nouvelles que j'apporte, 
 Vos beaux yeux vout pleurer !" 
 
 Richer and richer grows the accompaniment. The 
 mironton^ mirontalne becomes a dirge — 
 
 "Quittez vos habits roses — 
 
 Mironton, mironton, inirontaim ! 
 Quittez vos habits roses, 
 Et vos satins broches!" 
 
 Here the ding-donging of a big bell seems to mingle 
 with the score ; . . . and very slowly, and so impres- 
 sively that the news will ring forever in the ears and 
 hearts of those who hear it from la Svengali's lips : 
 
 "Le Sieur Malbrouck est mort — 
 Mironton, mirontori, mirontaine! 
 Le Sieur — Malbrouck — est — mort ! 
 Est mort — et enteire!" 
 
 And thus it ends quite abruptly ! 
 
 And this heart-rending tragedy, this great historical 
 epic in two dozen lines, at which some five or six thou- 
 sand gay French people are sniffling and mopping their 
 eyes like so many Niobes, is just a common old French 
 
" AUX NOUVELI,ES QUE J'aPPORTE, 
 
 VOS BEAUX YEUX TONT PLEURER !" 
 
 comic song — a mere nursery ditty, like " Little Bo- 
 peep" — to the tune, 
 
 " We won't go home till morning. 
 Till daylight doth appear." 
 
 And after a second or two of silence (oppressive and 
 impressive as that which occurs at a burial when the 
 handful of earth is being dropped on the coffin - lid) 
 the audience bursts once more into madness; and la 
 Svengali, who accepts no encores, has to bow for near- 
 ly five minutes, standing amid a sea of flowers. . . . 
 
330 
 
 Then comes her great and final performance. The 
 orchestra swiftly plays the first four bars of the bass 
 in Chopin's Impromptu (A flat) ; and suddenly, with- 
 out words, as a light nymph catching the whirl of a 
 double skipping-rope, la Svengali breaks in, and vocal- 
 izes that astounding piece of music that so few pianists 
 can even play ; but no pianist has ever played it like 
 this ; no piano has ever given out such notes as these ! 
 
 Every single phrase is a string of perfect gems, of 
 purest ray serene, strung together on a loose golden 
 thread ! The higher and shriller she sings, the sweeter 
 it is ; higher and shriller than any woman had ever 
 sung before. 
 
 "Waves of sweet and tender laughter, the very heart 
 and essence of innocent, high-spirited girlhood, alive to 
 all that is simple and joyous and elementary in nature 
 — the freshness of the morning, the ripple of the stream, 
 the click of the mill, the lisp of wind in the trees, the 
 song of the lark in the cloudless sky — the sun and the 
 dew, the scent of early flowers and summer woods and 
 meadows — the sight of birds and bees and butterflies 
 and frolicsome young animals at play — all the sights 
 and scents and sounds that are the birthright of happy 
 children, happy savages in favored climes — things 
 within the remembrance and the reach of most of us ! 
 All this, the memory and the feel of it, are in Trilby's 
 voice as she w^arbles that long, smooth, lilting, dancing 
 laugh, that wondrous song without words ; and those 
 who hear feel it all, and remember it with her. It is 
 irresistible ; it forces itself on you ; no words, no pict- 
 ures, could ever do the like ! So that the tears that are 
 shed out of all these many French eyes are tears of 
 
332 
 
 pure, unmixed delight in happy reminiscence! (Cho- 
 pin, it is trae, may have meant something quite dif- 
 ferent — a hot-house, perhaps, with orchids and arum 
 lihes and tuberoses and hydrangeas — but that is 
 neither here nor there.) 
 
 Then comes the slow movement, the sudden adagio, 
 with its capricious ornaments — the waking of the 
 virgin heart, the stirring of the sap, the dawn of love; 
 its doubts and fears and questionings ; and the mellow, 
 powerful, deep chest notes are hke the pealing of great 
 golden bells, with a light little pearl shower tinkling 
 round — drops from the upper fringe of her grand voice 
 as she shakes it. . . . 
 
 Then back again the quick part, childhood once 
 more, da capo, onlj" quicker! hurr}^ hurry ! but distinct 
 as ever. Loud and shrill and sweet beyond compare — 
 drowning the orchestra; of a piercing quality quite in- 
 effable ; a joy there is no telling; a clear, purling, crys- 
 tal stream that gurgles and foams and bubbles along 
 over sunlit stones ; " a wonder, a world's delight !" 
 
 And there is not a sign of effort, of difficulty over- 
 come. All through. Trilby smiles her broad, angelic 
 smile ; her lips well parted, her big white teeth glisten- 
 ing as she gentl}^ jerks her head from side to side in 
 time to Svengali's baton, as if to shake the willing 
 notes out quicker and higher and shriller. . . . 
 
 And in a minute or two it is all over, like the lovely 
 bouquet of fireworks at the end of the show, and she 
 lets what remains of it die out and away like the after- 
 glow of fading Bengal fires — her voice receding into 
 the distance — coming back to you like an echo from 
 all round, from anywhere you please — quite soft — 
 
333 
 
 hardly more than a breath ; but sioch a breath ! Then 
 one last chromatically ascending rocket, pianissimo, 
 up to E in alt, and then darkness and silence ! 
 
 And after a little pause the many-headed rises as 
 one, and waves its hats and sticks and handkerchiefs, 
 and stamps and shouts. . . . "Vive la Svengali! Vive 
 la Svengali !" 
 
 Svengali steps on to the platform by his wife's side 
 and kisses her hand ; and they both bow themselves 
 backward through the curtains, which fall, to rise 
 again and again and again on this astounding pair ! 
 
 Such was la Svengali's debut in Paris. 
 
 It had lasted little over an hour, one quarter of 
 which, at least, had been spent in plaudits and cour- 
 tesies ! 
 
 The writer is no musician, alas ! (as, no doubt, his 
 musical readers have found out by this) save in his 
 thraldom to music of not too severe a kind, and la- 
 ments the clumsiness and inadequacy of this wild 
 (though somewhat ambitious) attempt to recall an im- 
 pression received more than thirty years ago ; to re- 
 vive the ever- blessed memory of that unforgettable 
 first night at the Cirque des Bashibazoucks. 
 
 Would that I could transcribe here Berlioz's famous 
 series of twelve articles, entitled "La Svengali," which 
 were republished from La Lyre Eoliemie, and are now 
 out of print ! 
 
 Or Theophile Gautier's elaborate rhapsody, "Ma- 
 dame Svengali — Ange, ou Femme?" in which he 
 proves that one need not have a musical ear (he hadn't) 
 to be enslaved by such a voice as hers, any more than 
 the eye for beauty (this he had) to fall the victim of 
 
334 
 
 " her celestial form and face." It is enough, he says, 
 to be simply human ! I forget in which journal this 
 eloquent tribute appeared ; it is not to be found in 
 his collected works. 
 
 Or the intemperate diatribe by Herr Blagner (as I 
 will christen him) on the tyranny of the prima donna 
 called " Svengalisraus'' ; in which he attempts to show 
 that mere virtuosity carried to such a pitch is mere 
 viciosity — base acrobatismus of the vocal chords, a 
 hysteric appeal to morbid Gallic "sentimentalismus"; 
 and that this monstrous development of a phenomenal 
 larynx, this degrading cultivation and practice of the 
 abnormalismus of a mere physical peculiarity, are 
 death and destruction to all true music ; since they 
 place Mozart and Beethoven, and even himself, on a 
 level Avith Bellini, Donizetti, Offenbach— any Italian 
 tune - tinlder, any ballad - monger of the hated Paris 
 pavement ! and can make the highest music of all 
 (even Ms own) go down with the common French 
 herd at the very first hearing, just as if it were some 
 idiotic refrain of the cafe chantant ! 
 
 So much for Blagnerismus v. Svengalismus. 
 
 But I fear there is no space within the limits of 
 this humble tale for these masterpieces of technical 
 musical criticism. 
 
 Besides, there are other reasons. 
 
 Our three heroes walked back to the boulevards, the 
 only silent ones amid the throng that poured, through 
 the Kue St. Honore, as the Cirque des Bashibazoucks 
 emptied itself of its over-excited audience. 
 
 They went arm in arm, as usual ; but this time Lit- 
 
335 
 
 tie Billee was in the middle. He wished to feel on 
 each side of him the warm and genial contact of his 
 two beloved old friends. It seemed as if they had 
 suddenly been restored to him, after five long years 
 of separation ; his heart was overflowing with affec- 
 tion for them, too full to speak just yet ! Overflow- 
 ing, indeed, with the love of love, the love of life, the 
 love of death — the love of all that is, and ever was, 
 and ever will be ! just as in his old way. 
 
 He could have liugged them both in the open street, 
 before the whole world ; and the delight of it was 
 that this was no dream ; about that there was no mis- 
 take. He was himself again at last, after five years, 
 and wid3 awake ; and he owed it all to Trilby ! 
 
 And what did he feel for Trilby ? He couldn't tell 
 yet. It was too vast as yet to be measured ; and, alas ! 
 it was weighted with such a burden of sorrow and re- 
 gret that he might well put off the thought of it a little 
 while longer, and gather in what bliss he might : like 
 the man whose hearing has been restored after long 
 years, he would revel in the mere physical delight of 
 hearing for a space, and not go out of his way as yet 
 to listen for the bad news that was already in the air, 
 and would come to roost quite soon enough. 
 
 Taffy and the Laird were silent also ; Trilby's voice 
 was still in their ears and hearts, her image in their 
 eyes, and utter bewilderment still oppressed them and 
 kept them dumb. 
 
 It was a warm and balmy night, almost like mid- 
 summer ; and they stopped at the first cafe they met 
 on the Boulevard de la Madeleine {comme autrefois)^ 
 and ordered bocks of beer, and sat at a little table on 
 
the pavement, the only one unoccupied ; for the cafe 
 was ah^eady crowded, the hum of lively talk was 
 great, and " la Sevengali " Avas in every mouth. 
 
 The Laird was the first to speak. He emptied his 
 bock at a draught, and called for another, and lit a 
 cigar, and said, " I don't believe it was Trilby, after 
 all !" It was the first time her name had been men- 
 tioned between them that evening — and for five years! 
 
 " Good heavens !" said Taffy. " Can you doubt it?" 
 
 " Oh yes ! that was Trilby," said Little Billee. 
 
 Then the Laird proceeded to explain that, putting 
 aside the impossibility of Trilby's ever being taught 
 to sing in tune, and her well-remembered loathing for 
 Svengali, he had narrowly scanned her face through 
 his opera -glass, and found that in spite of a likeness 
 quite marvellous there were well - marked differences. 
 Pier face was narrower and longer, her ej'es larger, 
 and their expression not the same ; then she seemed 
 taller and stouter, and her shoulders broader and more 
 drooping, and so forth. 
 
 But the others wouldn't hear of it, and voted him 
 cracked, and declared they even recognized the pecul- 
 iar twang of her old speaking voice in the voice she 
 now sang with, especially when she sang low down. 
 And they all three fell to discussing the wonders 
 of her performance like everybody else all round ; 
 Little Billee leading, with an eloquence and a seeming 
 of technical musical knowledge that quite impressed 
 them, and made them feel happy and at ease ; for they 
 were anxious for his sake about the effect this sudden 
 and so unexpected sight of her would have upon him 
 after all that had passed. 
 
337 
 
 He seemed transcenclentlj happy and elate — incom- 
 prehensibly so, in fact — and looked at them both with 
 quite a new light in his eyes, as if all the music he had 
 heard had trebled not only his joy in being alive, but 
 liis pleasure at being with them. Evidently he had 
 quite outgrown his old passion for her, and that was a 
 comfort indeed ! 
 
 But Little Billee knew better. 
 
 He knew that his old passion for her had all come 
 back, and was so overwhelming and immense that he 
 could not feel it just yet, nor yet the hideous pangs of 
 a jealousy so consuming that it would burn up his life. 
 He gave himself another twenty-four hours. 
 
 But he had not to wait so long. He woke up after 
 a short, uneasy sleep that very night, to find that the 
 flood was over him ; and he realized how hopelessly, 
 desperately, wickedly, insanely he loved this woman, 
 who might have been his, but was now the wife of 
 another man ; a greater than he, and one to whom she 
 owed it that she was more glorious than any other 
 Avoman on earth — a queen among queens — a goddess ! 
 for what was any earthly throne compared to that she 
 established in the hearts and souls of all who came 
 within the sight and hearino;' of her ! beautiful as she 
 Avas besides — beautiful, beautiful ! And what must be 
 her love for the man who had taught her and trained 
 her, and revealed her towering genius to herself and to 
 the world !— a man resplendent also, handsome and tall 
 and commanding — a great artist from the crown of his 
 head to the sole of his foot ! 
 
 And the remembrance of them — hand in hand, 
 master and pupil, husband and wife — smiling and 
 
 22 
 
"and the remembrance of them — HAND IN HANI)' 
 
 bowing in the face of all that splendid tumult they 
 had called forth and could not quell, stung and tort- 
 ured and maddened him so that he could not lie still, 
 but got up and raged and rampaged up and dovVn his 
 hot, narrow, stuffy bedroom, and longed for his old 
 familiar brain - disease to come back and narcotize his 
 trouble, and be his friend, and stay with him till he 
 died! 
 
 Where was he to fly for relief from such new mem- 
 ories as these, which would never cease ; and the 
 old memories, and all the glamour and grace of them 
 that had been so suddenly called out of the grave ? 
 And how could he escape, now that he felt the sight 
 
339 
 
 of her face and the sound of her voice Avould be a 
 craving — a daily want — hke that of some poor starv- 
 ing outcast for warmth and meat and driidv ? 
 
 And little innocent, pathetic, ineffable, well-remem- 
 bered sweetnesses of her changing face kept painting 
 themselves on his retina ; and incomparable tones of 
 this new thing, her voice, her infinite voice, went ring- 
 ing in his head, till he all but shrieked aloud in his 
 agony. 
 
 And then the poisoned and delirious sweetness of 
 those mad kisses 
 
 "by hopeless fancy feigned 
 On lips that are for others " ! 
 
 And then the grewsome physical jealousy, that 
 miserable inheritance of all artistic sons of Adam, 
 that plague and torment of the dramatic, plastic im- 
 agination, which can idealize so well, and yet realize, 
 alas ! so keenly. After three or four hours spent like 
 this, he could stand it no longer ; madness was lying 
 his way. So he hurried on a garment, and went and 
 knocked at Taffy's door. 
 
 "Good God! Avhat's the matter with you?" ex- 
 claimed the good Taff}'-, as Little Billee tumbled into 
 his room, calling out : 
 
 " Oh, Taffy, Taffy, I've g-g-gone mad, I think !" 
 And then, shivering all over, and stammering incohe- 
 rently, he tried to tell his friend what was the matter 
 with him, with great simplicity. 
 
 Taffy, in much alarm, slipped on his trousers and 
 made Little Billee get into his bed, and sat by his side 
 holding his hand. He was greatly perplexed, fearing 
 
340 
 
 the recurrence of another attack like that of five years 
 back. He didn't dare leave him for an instant to 
 wake the Laird and send for a doctor. 
 
 Suddenly Little Billee buried his face in the pillow 
 and began to sob, and some instinct tokl Taffy this 
 was the best thing that could happen. The boy had 
 always been a highly strung, emotional, over-excitable, 
 over - sensitive, and quite uncontrolled mammy's-dar- 
 ling, a cry-baby sort of chap, who had never been to 
 school. It was all a part of his genius, and also a part 
 of his charm. It would do him good once more to 
 have a good blub after five years ! After a while 
 Little Billee grew quieter, and then suddenly he said : 
 " What a miserable ass you must think me, what an 
 unmanly duffer !" 
 
 " Why, my friend ?" 
 
 "Why, for going on in this idiotic way. I really 
 couldn't help it. I went mad, I tell you. I've been 
 walking up and down my room all night, till every- 
 thing seemed to go round." 
 
 " So have I." 
 
 "You? What for?" 
 
 " The very same reason." 
 
 " What r 
 
 " I was just as fond of Trilby as you were. Only 
 she happened to prefer your 
 
 " ^Yhat .^" cried Little Billee again. " You were fond 
 of Trilby ?" 
 
 "I believe you, m}'' boy !" 
 
 " In love with her ?" 
 
 " I believe you, my boy !" 
 
 " She never knew it, then !" 
 
" ' I BELIEVE TOU, MY BOY !' " 
 
 " Oh yes, she did." 
 
 " She never told mo, then !" 
 
 " Didn't she ? That's hke her. 1 tokl her, at all 
 events. I asked her to marry me." 
 
 " Well— I mil damned ! AVhen ?" 
 
 " That day we took her to Meudon, with Jeannot, 
 and dined at the Garde Champetre's, and she danced 
 the cancan with Sand}^" 
 
 " Well — I am, — And she refused you?" 
 
 " Apparently so." 
 
 " Well, I — Why on earth did she refuse you?" 
 
 " Oh, I suppose she'd already begun to fancy you, 
 my friend. // y en a toujours un autre /" 
 
343 
 
 "Fancy me — prefer me — to youf^ 
 
 "Well, yes. It does seem odd — eh, old fellow? 
 But there's no accounting for tastes, you know. She's 
 built on such an ample scale herself, I suppose, that 
 she likes little uns — contrast, you see. She's very 
 maternal, I think. Besides, you're a smart little chap ; 
 and you ain't half bad; and you've got brains and 
 talent, and lots of cheek, and all that. I'm rather a 
 ponderous kind of party." 
 
 " Well — I am damned !" 
 
 " C'est comme ga! I took it lying down, you see." 
 
 " Does the Laird know V 
 
 "No; and I don't want him to — nor anybody else." 
 
 "Taffy, what a regular downright old trump you 
 are !" 
 
 " Glad you think so ; an^diow, we're both in the 
 same boat, and we've got to make the best of it. She's 
 another man's wife, and probably she's very fond of 
 him. I'm sure she ought to be, cad as he is, after all 
 he's done for her. So there's an end of it." 
 
 "Ah ! there'll never be an end of it for me — never — 
 never — oh, never, my God ! She would have married 
 me but for my mother's meddling, and that stupid old 
 ass, my uncle. What a wife! Think of all she must 
 have in her heart and brain, only to sing like that ! 
 And, O Lord ! how beautiful she is — a goddess ! Oh, 
 the brow and cheek and chin, and the way her head's 
 put on ! did you ever see anything like it ! Oh, if 
 only I hadn't written and told my mother I was going 
 to marry her ! why, we should have been man and 
 wife for five years by this time — living at Barbizon — 
 painting away like mad ! Oh, what a heavenly life ! 
 
343 
 
 Oh, curse all officious meddling with other people's 
 affairs ! Oh ! oh ! . . ." 
 
 " There you go again ! What's the good ? and where 
 do /come in, my friend ? /should have been no bet- 
 ter off, old fellow — worse than ever, I think." 
 
 Then there was a long silence. 
 
 At length Little Billee said : 
 
 " Taffy, I can't tell you what a trump you are. All 
 I've ever thought of 3^ou — and God knows that's 
 enough — will be nothing to what I shall always think 
 of you after this." 
 
 " All right, old chap." 
 
 "And now I think Pm all right again, for a time — 
 and I shall cut back to bed. Good-night ! Thanks 
 more than I can ever express !" And Little Billee, re- 
 stored to his balance, cut back to his own bed just as 
 the day was breaking. 
 
Ipart Seventb 
 
 "The moon made thy lips pale, beloved ; 
 The wind made thy bosom chill ; 
 The night did shed 
 On thy dear head 
 Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie 
 Where the bitter breath of the naked sky 
 Might visit lliee at will." 
 
 Next morning our three friends lay late abed, and 
 breakfasted in their rooms. 
 
 They had all three passed "white nights" — even 
 the Laird, who had tossed about and pressed a sleep- 
 less pillow till dawn, so excited had he been by the 
 wonder of Trilby's reincarnation, so perplexed by his 
 own doubts as to whether it was really Trilby or 
 not. 
 
 And certain haunting tones of her voice, that voice 
 so cruelly sweet (which clove the stillness with a clang 
 so utterly new, so strangely heart-piercing and seduc- 
 tive, that the desire to hear it once more became nos- 
 talgic — almost an ache!), certain bits and bars and 
 phrases of the music she had sung, unspeakable felici- 
 ties and facilities of execution ; sudden exotic warmths, 
 fragrances, tendernesses, graces, depths, and breadths ; 
 quick changes from grave to gay, from rough to 
 smooth, from great metallic brazen clangors to soft 
 golden suavities ; all the varied modes of sound we 
 try so vainly to borrow from vocal nature by means 
 
345 
 
 of wind and reed and string — all this new " Trilby- 
 ness " kept echoing in his brain all night (for he was 
 of a nature deeply musical), and sleep had been impos- 
 sible to him. 
 
 "As when we dwell upon a word we know, 
 Relocating, till the word we know so well 
 Becomes a wonder, and we know not why," 
 
 SO dwelt the Laird upon the poor old tune " Ben Bolt," 
 which kept singing itself over and over again in his 
 tired consciousness, and maddened him with novel, 
 strange, unhackneyed, unsuspected beauties such as he 
 had never dreamed of in any earthly music. 
 
 It had become a wonder, and he knew not why ! 
 
 Tliey spent what was left of the morning at the 
 Louvre, and tried to interest themselves in the "Mar- 
 riage of Cana," and the " Woman at the Well," and 
 Vandyck's man with the glove, and the little princess 
 of Velasquez, and Lisa Gioconda's smile : it was of no 
 use trying. There was no sight worth looking at in 
 all Paris but Trilby in her golden raiment ; no other 
 princess in the world ; no smile but hers, when tlirough 
 her parted lips came bubbling Chopin's Impromptu. 
 They had not long to stay in Paris, and they must 
 drink of that bubbling fountain once more — coute que 
 coute ! They went to the Salle des Bashibazoucks, and 
 found that all seats all over the house had been taken 
 for days and weeks ; and the " queue " at the door had 
 already begun ! and they had to give up all hopes of 
 slaking this particular thirst. 
 
 Then they went and lunched perfunctorily, and 
 talked desultorily over lunch, and read criticisms of 
 
346 
 
 la Svengali's debut in the morning papers — a chorus 
 of journalistic acclamation gone mad, a frenzied eulogy 
 in every key — but nothing was good enough for them ! 
 Brand-new words were wanted— another language ! 
 
 Then they wanted a long walk, and could think of 
 nowhere to go in all Paris — that immense Paris, where 
 they had promised themselves to see so much that the 
 Aveek they were to spend there had seemed too short ! 
 
 Looking in a paper, they saw it announced that the 
 band of the Imperial Guides would play that after- 
 noon in the Pre Catelan, Bois de Boulogne, and 
 thought they might as well walk there as anywhere 
 else, and walk back again in time to dine with the 
 Passefils — a prandial function which did not promise 
 to be very amusing ; but still it was something to kill 
 the evening with, since they couldn't go and hear 
 Trilby again. 
 
 Outside the Pre Catelan they found a crowd of cabs 
 and carriages, saddle-horses and grooms. One might 
 have thought one's self in the height of the Paris sea- 
 son. They went in, and strolled about here and there, 
 and listened to the band, wiiich was famous (it has 
 performed in London at the Crystal Palace), and they 
 looked about and studied life, or tried to. 
 
 Suddenly they saw, sitting with three ladies (one of 
 whom, the eldest, was in black), a very smart young 
 officer, a guide, all red and green and gold, and recog- 
 nized their old friend Zouzou. They bowed, and he 
 knew them at once, and jumped up and came to them 
 and greeted them warmly, especially his old friend 
 TaflFy, whom he took to his mother — the lady in black 
 —and introduced to the other ladies, the younger of 
 
847 
 
 whom, strangely unlike the rest of her countrywomen, 
 was so lamentably, so pathetically plain that it would be 
 brutal to attempt the cheap and eas}^ task of describing 
 her. It was Miss Lavinia Hunks, the famous American 
 millionairess, and her mother. Then the good Zouzou 
 came back and talked to the Laird and Little Billee. 
 
 Zouzou, in some subtle and indescribable way, had 
 become very ducal indeed. 
 
 He looked extremely distinguished, for one thing, in 
 his beautiful guide's uniform, and was most gracefully 
 and winningly polite. lie inquired warmly after Mrs. 
 and Miss Bagot, and begged Little Billee would recall 
 him to their amiable remembrance when he saw them 
 again. He expressed most sympathetically his de- 
 light to see Little Billee looking so strong and so well 
 (Little Billee looked like a pallid little washed-out 
 ghost, after his white night). 
 
 They talked of Dodor. He said how attached he 
 was to Dodor, and always should be ; but Dodor, it 
 seemed, had made a great mistake in leaving the army 
 and going into a retail business {petit commerce). He 
 had done for himself — degringoU ! He should have 
 stuck to the dragons — with a little patience and good 
 conduct he would have " won his epaulet " — and then 
 one might have arranged for him a good little mar- 
 riage — un imrti eonvenable — for he was "tres joli gar- 
 9on, Dodor ! bonne tournure — et tres gentiment ne ! 
 C'est tres ancien, les Eigolot — dans le Poitou, je crois 
 — Lafarce, et tout 9a ; tout a fait bien !" 
 
 It was difficult to realize that this polished and dis- 
 creet and somewhat patronizing young man of the 
 world was the jolly dog who had gone after Little 
 
S48 
 
 Billee's hat on all fours in the Rue Yieille des Mau- 
 vais Ladres and brought it back in his mouth — the 
 Caryhatide ! 
 
 Little Billee little knew that Monsieur le Due de la 
 Rochemartel-Boissegur had quite recently delighted a 
 very small and select and most august imperial supper- 
 party at Compiegne with this very story, not blinking 
 a single detail of his own share in it — and had given 
 a most touching and sympathetic description of " le 
 joli petit peintre anglais qui s'appelait Litrebili, et 
 ne pouvait pas se tenir sur ses jambes — et qui pleu- 
 rait d'amour fraternel dans les bras de mon copain 
 Dodor !" 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur Gontran. ce que je donnerais pour 
 avoir vu ca !" had said the greatest lady in France ; 
 " un de mes zouaves— a quatre pattes— dans la rue — 
 un chapeau dans la bouche — oh — c'est impaj'able !" 
 
 Zouzou kept these blackguard bohemian reminis- 
 cences for the imperial circle alone — to which it 
 was suspected that he was secretly ralljing himself. 
 Among all outsiders — especially within the narrow 
 precincts of the cream of the noble Faubourg (which 
 remained aloof from the Tuileries) — he was a very 
 proper and gentlemanlike person indeed, as his brother 
 had been — and, in his mother's fond belief, " tres bien 
 pensant, tres bien vu, a Frohsdorf et a Eome." 
 
 On. lid aurait donne le hoii Dieu sans coi^fession — 
 as Madame Vinard had said of Little Billee — they 
 would have shriven him at sight, and admitted him to 
 the holy communion on trust ! 
 
 He did not present Little Billee and the Laird to 
 his mother, nor to Mrs. and Miss Hunks; that honor 
 
349 
 
 was reserved for " the Man of Blood " alone ; nor did he 
 ask where they were staying, nor invite them to call on 
 him. But in parting he expressed the immense pleas- 
 ure it had given him to meet them again, and the hope 
 he had of some day shaking their hands in London. 
 
 As the friends walked back to Paris together, it 
 transpired that " the Man of Blood " had been invited 
 by Madame Duchesse Mere (Maman Duchesse, as Zou- 
 zou called her) to dine with her next day, and meet the 
 Hunkses at a furnished apartment she had taken in the 
 Place Yendome ; for they had let (to the Hunkses) the 
 Hotel de la Rochemartel in the Kue de Lille ; they had 
 also been obliged to let their place in the country, le 
 chateau de Boissegur (to Monsieur Despoires, or " des 
 Poires," as he chose to spell himself on his visiting- 
 cards — the famous soap - manufacturer — " Un tres 
 brave homme, a ce qu'on dit !" and whose only son, 
 by-the-way, soon after married Mademoiselle Jeanne- 
 Adelaide d'Amaury-Brissac de Roncesvaulx de Boisse- 
 gur de la Rochemartel). 
 
 " II ne fait pas gras chez nous a present — je vous as- 
 sure !" Madame Duchesse M^re had pathetically said 
 to Taffy — but had given him to understand that things 
 would be very much better for her son, in the event 
 of his marriage with Miss Hunks. 
 
 " Good heavens !" said Little Billee, on hearing this ; 
 " that grotesque little bogy in blue ? Why, she's de- 
 formed — she squints — she's a dwarf, and looks like an 
 idiot ! Millions or no millions, the man who marries 
 her is a felon ! As long as there are stones to break 
 and a road to break them on, the able-bodied man who 
 marries a woman like that for anything but pity and 
 
350 
 
 kindness — and even then — dishonors himself, insults 
 his ancestry, and inflicts on his descendants a wrong 
 that nothing will ever redeem — he nips them in the bud 
 — he blasts them forever ! He ought to be cut by his 
 fellow-men — sent to Coventry — to jail — to penal servi- 
 tude for life ! He ought to have a separate hell to 
 himself when he dies. He ought to — " 
 
 " Shut up, you little blaspheming ruffian !" said the 
 Laird. " Where do you expect to go to, yourself, with 
 such frightful sentiments ? And what would become 
 of 3'^our beautiful old twelfth-century dukedoms, with 
 a hundred yards of back-frontage opposite the Louvre, 
 on a beautiful historic river, and a dozen beautiful his- 
 toric names, and no money — if you had your way?" 
 and the Laird wunk his historic wink. 
 
 " Twelfth-century dukedoms be damned !" said Taffy 
 au grand serieux, as usual. " Little Billee's quite right, 
 and Zouzou makes me sick! Besides, what does she 
 marry him for — not for his beauty either, I guess ! 
 She's his fellow -criminal, his deliberate accomplice, 
 paHlceps delicti^ accessory before the act and after ! 
 She has no right to marry at all ! tar and feathers and 
 a rail for both of them — and for Maman Duchesse too 
 — and I suppose that's why I refused her invitation to 
 dinner ! and now let's go and dine with Dodor — . . . 
 anyhow Dodor's young woman doesn't marry him for 
 a dukedom — or even his ' Cilq'' — inals Vien pour ses 
 heaux yeux! and if the Rigolots of the future turn out 
 less nice to look at than their sire, and not quite so 
 amusing, they will probably be a great improvement 
 on him in many other ways. There's room enough — 
 and to spare !" 
 
liliiiiiiiiiiii 
 
 "maman dcchesse" 
 
352 
 
 '"Ear! 'ear!" said Little Billee (who always grew 
 flippant when Taffy got on his high horse). "Your 
 'ealth and song, sir — them's my sentiments to a T ! 
 What shall we 'ave the pleasure of drinkin', after that 
 wery nice 'armony ?" 
 
 After which they walked on in silence, each, no 
 doubt, musing on the general contrariness of things, 
 and imagining what splendid little Wynnes, or Bagots, 
 or McAlisters might have been ushered into a deca- 
 dent world for its regeneration if fate had so willed it 
 that a certain magnificent and singularly gifted gri- 
 sette, etc., etc., etc. . , . 
 
 Mrs. and Miss Hunks passed them as they walked 
 along, in a beautiful blue barouch with C springs — 
 un '■'' huit-ressorts'''' ^ Maman Duchesse passed them in 
 a hired fly ; Zouzou passed them on horseback ; "tout 
 Paris " passed them ; but they were none the wiser, 
 and agreed that the show was not a patch on that in 
 Hyde Park during the London season. 
 
 When they reached the Place de la Concorde it was 
 that lovely hour of a fine autumn day in beautiful 
 bright cities when all the lamps are lit in the shops 
 and streets and under the trees, and it is still day- 
 light — a quickly fleeting joy j and as a special treat on 
 this particular occasion the sun set, and up rose the 
 yellow moon over eastern Paris, and floated above the 
 chimney-pots of the Tuileries. 
 
 They stopped to gaze at the homeward procession of 
 cabs and carriages, as they used to do in the old times. 
 Tout Paris was still passing ; tout Paris is very long. 
 
 They stood among a little crowd of sight-seers like 
 themselves, Little Billee right in front — in the road. 
 
353 
 
 Presently a magnificent open carriage came by — 
 more magnificent than even the Hunkses', with liv- 
 eries and harness quite vulgarly resplendent — almost 
 Napoleonic. 
 
 Lolling back in it lay Monsieur et Madame Svengali 
 — he with his broad-brimmed felt sombrero over his 
 long black curls, wrapped in costly furs, smoking his 
 bis: cigar of the Havana. 
 
 By his side la Svengali — also in sables — with a large 
 black velvet hat on, her light brown hair done up in a 
 huge knot on the nape of her neck. She was rouged 
 and pearl-powdered, and her eyes were blackened be- 
 neath, and thus made to look twice their size ; but in 
 spite of all such disfigurements she was a most splen- 
 did vision, and caused quite a little sensation in the 
 crowd as she came slowly by. 
 
 Little Billee's heart was in his mouth. He caught 
 Svengali's eye, and saw him speak to her. She turned 
 her head and looked at him standing there — they 
 both did. Little Billee bowed. She stared at him 
 with a cold stare of disdain, and cut him dead — so did 
 Svengali. And as they passed he heard them both 
 snigger — she with a little high-pitched, flippant snigger 
 worthy of a London bar-maid. 
 
 Little Billee was utterly crushed, and everything 
 seemed turning round. 
 
 The Laird and Taffy had seen it all without losing 
 a detail. The Svengalis had not even looked their 
 way. The Laird said : 
 
 "It's not Trilby— I swear! She could oiever have 
 done that — it's not in her ! and it's another face alto- 
 gether—I'm sure of it!" 
 
354 
 
 Tafify was also staggered and in doubt. They caught 
 hold of Little Billee, each by an arm, and walked him 
 off to the boulevards. He was quite demoralized, and 
 
 wanted not to dine at 
 the Passefils'. He want- 
 ed to go straight home 
 
 THK CUT DIRECT 
 
 at once. He longed for his mother as he used to long 
 for her when he was in trouble as a small boy and she 
 was away from home — longed for her desperately — to 
 hug her and hold her and fondle her, and be fondled, 
 for his own sake and hers ; all his old love for her 
 had come back in full — with what arrears! all his old 
 love for his sistier, for his old home. 
 
 When they went back to the hotel to Jress (for 
 
355 
 
 Dodor had begged them to put on their best evening 
 war-paint, so as to impress his future mother-in-law), 
 Little Billee became fractious and intractable. And it 
 was only on Taffy's promising that he would go all 
 the way to Devonshire with him on the morrow, and 
 stay with him there, that he could be got to dress and 
 dine. 
 
 The huge Taffy lived entirely by his affections, and 
 he hadn't many to live by — the Laird, Trilby, and 
 Little Billee. 
 
 Trilby was unattainable, the Laird was quite strong 
 and independent enough to get on by himself, and 
 Taffy had concentrated all his faculties of protection 
 and affection on Little Billee, and was equal to any 
 burden or responsibility all this instinctive young 
 fathering might involve. 
 
 In the first place. Little Billee had always been able 
 to do quite easily, and better than any one else in the 
 world, the very things Taffy most longed to do him- 
 self and couldn't, and this inspired the good Taffy with 
 a chronic reverence and wonder he could not have 
 expressed in words. 
 
 Then Little Billee was physically small and weak, 
 and incapable of self-control. Then he was generous, 
 amiable, affectionate, transparent as crystal, without 
 an atom of either egotism or conceit ; and had a gift 
 of amusing you and interesting you by his talk (and 
 its complete sincerity) that never palled ; and even his 
 silence was charming — one felt so sure of him — so 
 there was hardly any sacrifice, little or big, that big 
 Taffy was not ready and glad to make for Little Bil- 
 lee, On the other hand, there lay deep down under 
 
356 
 
 Taffy's surface irascibility and earnestness about tri- 
 fles (and beneath his harmless vanity of the strong 
 man), a long-suffering patience, a real humility, a ro- 
 bustness of judgment, a sincerity and all-roundness, a 
 completeness of sympathy, that made him very good 
 to trust and safe to lean upon. Then his powerful, 
 impressive aspect, his great stature, the gladiatorlike 
 poise of his small round head on his big neck and 
 shoulders, his huge deltoids and deep chest and slen- 
 der loins, his clean-cut ankles and wrists, all the long 
 and bold and highly-finished athletic shapes of him, 
 that easy grace of strength that made all his move- 
 ments a pleasure to watch, and any garment look well 
 when he wore it — all this was a perpetual feast to the 
 quick, prehensile, aesthetic eye. And then he had such 
 a solemn, earnest, lovable way of bending pokers round 
 his neck, and breaking them on his arm, and jumping 
 his own height (or near it), and lifting up arm-chairs 
 by one leg with one hand, and what not else ! 
 
 So that there was hardly any sacrifice, little or big, 
 that Little Billee would not accept from big Taffy as 
 a mere matter of course — a fitting and proper tribute 
 rendered by bodily strength to genius. 
 
 Par nohile fratrum — well met and well mated for 
 fast and long-enduring friendship. 
 
 The family banquet at Monsieur Passefil's would 
 have been dull but for the irrepressible Dodor, and still 
 more for the Laird of Cock pen, who rose to the occa- 
 sion, and surpassed himself in geniality, drollery, and 
 eccentricity of French grammar and accent. Monsieur 
 
357 
 
 Passefil was also a droll in his way, and had the quick- 
 ly familiar, jocose facetiousness that seems to belong 
 to the successful middle-aged bourgeois all over the 
 Avorld, when he's not pompous instead (he can even 
 be both sometimes). 
 
 Madame Passefil was not jocose. She was much 
 impressed by the aristocratic splendor of Taffy, the 
 romantic melancholy and refinement of Little Billee, 
 and their quiet and dignified politeness. She always 
 spoke of Dodor as Monsieur de Lafarce, though the 
 rest of the family (and one or two friends who had 
 been invited) always called him IVIonsieur Theodore, 
 and he was officially known as Monsieur Rigolot. 
 
 Whenever Madame Passefil addressed him or spoke 
 of him in this aristocratic manner (which happened 
 very often), Dodor would wink at his friends, with 
 his tongue in his cheek. It seemed to amuse him 
 beyond measure. 
 
 Mademoiselle Ernestine was evidently too much in 
 love to say anything, and seldom took her e3'es off 
 Monsieur Theodore, whom she had never seen in even- 
 ing dress before. It must be owned that he looked 
 very nice — more ducal than even Zouzou — and to be 
 Madame de Lafarce en persjpective^ and the future 
 owner of such a brilliant husband as Dodor, was enough 
 to turn a stronger little bourgeois head than Made- 
 moiselle Ernestine's. 
 
 She was not beautiful, but healthy, well grown, well 
 brought up, and presumably of a sweet, kind, and 
 amiable disposition — an ingenue fresh from her con- 
 vent — innocent as a child, no doubt ; and it was felt 
 that Dodor had done better for himself (and for his 
 
358 
 
 race) than Monsieur le Due. Little Dodors need have 
 no fear. 
 
 After dinner the ladies and gentlemen left the 
 dining-room together, and sat in a pretty salon ov^er- 
 looking the boulevard, where cigarettes were allowed, 
 and there was music. Mademoiselle Ernestine la- 
 boriously played " Les Cloches du Monastere" (by 
 Monsieur Lefebure-Wely, if I'm not mistaken). It's 
 the most bourgeois piece of music I know. 
 
 Then Dodor, with 
 his sweet high voice, so 
 strangely pathetic and 
 true, sang goody-goody 
 little French sonffs of 
 
 
 •'petit enfant, j'aimais d'dn amour tkndre 
 ma mere et dieu — saintes affections ! 
 puis mon amour aux fleurs se fit entendre, 
 puis aux oiseaux. et puis avx papillons j" 
 
359 
 
 innocence (of which he seemed to have an endless re- 
 pertoire) to his future wife's conscientious accompani- 
 ment — to the immense delight, also, of all his future 
 family, who w^ere almost in tears — and to the great 
 amusement of the Laird, at whom he winked in the 
 most pathetic parts, putting his forefinger to the side 
 of his nose, like Noah Claypole in Oliver Twist. 
 
 The wonder of the hour, la Svengali, was discussed, 
 of course ; it was unavoidable. But our friends did not 
 think it necessary to reveal that she was " la grande 
 Trilby." That would soon transpire by itself. 
 
 And, indeed, before the month was a w^eek older 
 the papers were full of nothing else. 
 
 Madame Svengali — " la grande Trilby " — was the 
 only daughter of the honorable and reverend Sir 
 Lord O'Ferrall. 
 
 She had run away from the primeval forests and 
 lonely marshes of le Dublin, to lead a free-and-easy 
 life among the artists of the quartier latin of Paris — 
 une vie de hoheme ! 
 
 She was the Venus Anadyomene from top to toe. 
 
 She was hlanche comme neige, avec un volcan dans 
 le conur. 
 
 Casts of her alabaster feet could be had at Brucci- 
 ani's, in the Rue de la Souriciere St. Denis. (He made 
 a fortune.) 
 
 Monsieur Ingres had painted her left foot on the 
 wall of a studio in the Place St. Anatole des Arts ; 
 and an eccentric Scotch milord (le Comte de Pen- 
 cock) had bought the house containing the fiat con- 
 taining the studio containing the wall on which it 
 was painted, had had the house pulled down, and 
 
360 
 
 the wall framed and glazed and sent to his castle of 
 Edimbourg. 
 
 (This, unfortunately, was in excess of the truth. It 
 was found impossible to execute the Laird's wish, on 
 account of the material the wall was made of. So the 
 Lord Count of Pencock — such was Madame Vinard's 
 version of Sandy's nickname — had to forego his pur- 
 chase.) 
 
 Next morning our friends were in readiness to leave 
 Paris ; even the Laird had had enough of it, and longed 
 to get back to his work again — a " Hari-kari in Yoko- 
 hama." (He had never been to Japan ; but no more 
 had any one else in those early days.) 
 
 They had just finished breakfast, and were sitting 
 in the court-yard of the hotel, which was crowded, as 
 usual. 
 
 Little Billee went into the hotel post-office to de- 
 spatch a note to his mother. Sitting sideways there 
 at a small table and reading letters was Svengali — 
 of all people in tlie world. But for these two and a 
 couple of clerks the room was empty. 
 
 Svengali looked up ; they were quite close to- 
 gether. 
 
 Little Billee, in his nervousness, began to shake, 
 and half put out his hand, and drew it back again, 
 seeing the look of hate on Svengali's face. 
 
 Svengali jumped up, put his letters together, and 
 passing by Little Billee on liis way to the door, called 
 him " verfluchter Schweinhund," and deliberately spat 
 in his face. 
 
 Little Billee was paralyzed for a second or two; 
 
361 
 
 then be ran after Svengali, and canght him just at 
 the top of the marble stairs, and kicked him, and 
 knocked off his hat, and made him drop all his let- 
 ters. Svengali turned round and struck him over the 
 mouth and made it bleed, and Little Billee hit out like 
 a fury, but with no effect : he couldn't reach high 
 enough, for Svengali was well over six feet. 
 
 There was a croAvd round them in a minute, includ- 
 ing the beautiful old man in the court suit and gold 
 chain, who called out : 
 
 " Vite ! vite ! un coramissaire de police !" — a cry 
 that was echoed all over the place. 
 
 Taffy saw the row, and shouted, " Bravo, little un !" 
 and jumping up from his table, jostled his way through 
 the crowd ; and Little Billee, bleeding and gasping and 
 perspiring and stammering, said: 
 
 " He spat in my face, Taffy — damn him ! I'd never 
 even spoken to him — not a word, I swear !" 
 
 Svengali had not reckoned on Taffy's being there ; 
 he recognized him at once, and turned white. 
 
 Taffy, who had dog-skin gloves on, put out his right 
 hand, and deftly seized Svengali's nose between his 
 fore and middle fingers and nearly pulled it off, and 
 swung his head two or three times backward and for- 
 ward by it, and then from side to side, Svengali hold- 
 ing on to his wrist ; and then, letting him go, gave 
 him a sounding open-handed smack on his right cheek 
 — and a smack on the face from Taffy (even in play) 
 was no joke, I'm told ; it made one smell brimstone, 
 and see and hear things that didn't exist. 
 
 Svengali gasped worse than Little Billee, and 
 couldn't speak for a while. Then he said, 
 
362 
 
 Lache — grand lache! che fous enf(3rrai mes te- 
 
 moins 
 
 r' 
 
 "At your orders!" said Taffy, in beautiful French, 
 and drew out his card -case, and gave him his card in 
 quite the orthodox French manner, adding : " I shall 
 be here till to-morrow at twelve — but that is my 
 London address, in case I don't hear from you be- 
 fore I leave. Fm sorry, but you really mustn't spit, 
 you know — it's not done. I will come to you when- 
 ever you send for me — even if I have to come from 
 the end of the world." 
 
 " Tres bien ! tres bien !" said a military -looking old 
 gentleman close by, who gave Taffy his card, in case 
 he might be of any service — and who seemed quite 
 delighted at the row — and indeed it was really pleas- 
 ant to note with what a smooth, flowing, rhythmical 
 spontaneity the good Taffy could always improvise 
 these swift little acts of summary retributive justice: 
 no hurry or scurry or flurry whatever — not an inhar- 
 monious gesture, not an infelicitous line — the very 
 poetry of violence, and its only excuse ! 
 
 Whatever it was worth, this was Taffy's special 
 gift, and it never failed him at a pinch. 
 
 When the commissaire de police arrived, all was 
 over. Svengali had gone away in a cab, and Taffy 
 put himself at the disposition of the commissaire. 
 
 They went into the post-office and discussed it all 
 with the old mihtary gentleman, and tlie major-domo in 
 velvet, and the two clerks who had seen the original in- 
 sult. And all that w^as required of Taffy and his friends 
 for the present was " their names, prenames, titles, 
 qualities, age, address, nationality, occupation," etc. 
 
364 
 
 " C'est une affaire qui s'arrangera autrement, et au- 
 tre part !" had said the military gentleman — monsieur 
 le general Comte de la Tour-aux-Loups. 
 
 So it blew over quite simply ; and all that day 
 a fierce unholy joy burned in Taffy's choleric blue 
 eye. 
 
 Not, indeed, that he had any wish to injure Trilby's 
 husband, or meant to do him any grievous bodily 
 harm, whatever happened. But he was glad to have 
 given Svengali a lesson in manners. 
 
 That Svengali should injure him never entered into 
 his calculations for a moment. Besides, he didn't be- 
 lieve Sveno^ali would show fio'ht ; and in this he was 
 not mistaken. 
 
 But he had, for hours, the feel of that long, thick, 
 shapely Hebrew nose being kneaded between his 
 gloved knuckles, and a pleasing sense of the effective- 
 ness of the tweak he had given it. So he went about 
 chewing the cud of that heavenly remembrance all 
 day, till reflection brought remorse, and he felt sorry ; 
 for he was really the mildest-mannered man that ever 
 broke a head ! 
 
 Only the sight of Little Billee's blood (which had 
 been made to flow bv such an unequal antagonist) had 
 roused the old Adam. 
 
 No message came from Svengali to ask for the 
 names and addresses of Taffy's seconds ; so Dodor and 
 Zouzou (not to mention Mister the general Count of 
 the Tooraloorals, as the Laird called him) were left 
 undisturbed ; and our three musketeers went back to 
 London clean of blood, whole of limb, and heartily 
 sick of Paris. 
 
365 
 
 Little Billee stayed with his mother and sister in 
 Devonshire till Christmas, Taffy staying at the village 
 inn. 
 
 It was Taffy who told Mrs. Bagot about la Sven- 
 gali's all but certain identity with Trilby, after Little 
 Billee had gone to bed, tired and worn out, the night 
 of their arrival. 
 
 " Good heavens !" said poor Mrs. Bagot. " Why, 
 that's the new singing woman who's coming over here! 
 There's an article about her in to-day's Times. It 
 sa3ys she's a wonder, and that there's no one like her ! 
 Surely that can't be the Miss O'Ferrall I saw in 
 Paris!" 
 
 " It seems impossible — but I'm almost certain.it is — 
 and Willy has no doubts in the matter. On the other 
 hand, McAlister declares it isn't." 
 
 " Oh, what trouble ! So thats why poor Willy 
 looks so ill and miserable ! It's all come back again. 
 Could she sing at all then, when you knew her in 
 Paris?" 
 
 "Not a note — her attempts at singing were quite 
 grotesque." 
 
 '' Is she still very beautiful ?" 
 
 " Oh yes ; there's no doubt about that ; more than 
 ever !" 
 
 "And her singing — is that so very wonderful? I 
 remember that she had a beautiful voice in speaking," 
 
 "Wonderful? Ah, yes; I never heard or dreamed 
 the like of it. Grisi, Alboni, Patti — not one of them 
 to be mentioned in the same breath !" 
 
 " Good heavens ! Why, she must be simply irre- 
 sistible! I wonder you're not in love with her your- 
 
366 
 
 self. How dreadful these sirens are, wrecking the 
 peace of families !" 
 
 " You mustn't forget that she gave way at once at 
 a word from you, Mrs, Bagot ; and she was very fond 
 of Willy. She wasn't a siren then." 
 
 "Oh yes — oh yes! that's true — she behaved very 
 well — she did her duty — I can't deny that! You 
 must try and forgive me, Mr. Wynne— although I can't 
 forgive her! — that dreadful illness of poor AYilly's — 
 that bitter time in Paris. . . ." 
 
 And Mrs. Bagot began to cry, and Taffy forgave. 
 " Oh, Mr. Wynne — let us still hope that there's some 
 mistake — that it's only somebody like her! Why, 
 she's coming to sing in London after Christmas ! My 
 poor boy's infatuation will only increase. What shall 
 I do?" 
 
 " Well — she's another man's wife, you see. So 
 Willy's infatuation is bound to burn itself out as soon 
 as he fully recognizes that important fact. Besides, 
 she cut him dead in the Champs £lysees — and her 
 husband and Willy had a row next day at the hotel, 
 and cuffed and kicked each other — that's rather a bar 
 to any future intimacy, I think." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Wynne ! my son cuffing and kicking a 
 man whose wife he's in love with ! Good heavens !" 
 
 " Oh, it was all right — the man had grossly insulted 
 him — and Willy behaved like a brick, and got the 
 best of it in the end, and nothing came of it. I saw 
 it all." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Wynne — and you didn't interfere ?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I interfered — everybody interfered. It 
 was all right, I assure you. Ho bones were broken 
 
" I SDPPOSE YOU DO ALL THIS KIND OF THING FOR MERE 
 AMDSEMKNT, MR. WYNNE ?" 
 
 on either side, and there was no nonsense about calling 
 out, or swords or pistols, and all that," 
 
 " Thank Heaven !'' 
 
 In a week or two Little Billee grew more like him- 
 self again, and pamted endless studies of rocks and 
 cliffs and sea — and Taffy painted with him, and was 
 very content. The vicar and Little Billee patched up 
 their feud. The vicar also took an immense fancy to 
 Taffy, whose cousin. Sir Oscar Wynne, he had known 
 
368 
 
 at college, and lost no opportunity of being hospitable 
 and civil to him. And his daughter was away in 
 Algiers. 
 
 And all " the nobility and gentry " of the neighbor- 
 hood, including "the poor dear marquis" (one of 
 whose sons was in Taffy's old regiment), were civil 
 and hospitable also to the two painters — and Taffy 
 got as much sport as he wanted, and became immense- 
 ly popular. And they had, on the whole, a very good 
 time till Christmas, and a very pleasant Christmas, if 
 not an exuberantly merry one. 
 
 After Christmas Little Billee insisted on going back 
 to London — to paint a picture for the Royal Acade- 
 my ; and Taffy went with him ; and there was dul- 
 ness in the house of Bagot — and many misgivings in 
 the maternal heart of its mistress. 
 
 And people of all kinds, high and low, from the 
 family at the Court to the fishermen on the little pier 
 and their wives and children, missed the two genial 
 painters, who were the friends of everybody, and made 
 such beautiful sketches of their beautiful coast. 
 
 La Svengali has arrived in London. Her name is 
 in every mouth. Her photograph is in the shop-win- 
 dows. She is to sing at J 's monster concerts 
 
 next week. She was to have sung sooner, but it seems 
 some hitch has occurred — a quarrel between Monsieur 
 Svengali and his first violin, who is a very important 
 person. 
 
 A crowd of people as usual, only bigger, is assem- 
 bled in front of the windows of the Stereoscopic Com- 
 
369 
 
 pany in Regent Street, gazing at presentments of 
 Madame Sevengali in all sizes and costumes. She is 
 very beautiful — there is no doubt of that ; and the 
 expression of her face is sweet and kind and sad, and 
 of such a distinction that one feels an imperial crown 
 would become her even better than her modest little 
 coronet of golden stars. One of the photographs rep- 
 resents her in classical dress, with her left foot on a 
 little stool, in something of the attitude of the Venus 
 of Milo, except that her hands are clasped behind her 
 back ; and the foot is bare but for a Greek sandal, and 
 so smooth and delicate and charming, and with so 
 rhythmical a set and curl of the five slender toes (the 
 big one slightly tip -tilted and well apart from its 
 longer and slighter and more aquiline neighbor), that 
 this presentment of her sells quicker than all the rest. 
 
 And a little man who, with two bigger men, has 
 just forced his way in front says to one of his friends : 
 " Look, Sandy, look — the foot ! Now have you got 
 any doubts ?" 
 
 " 0-h yes — those are Trilby's toes, sure enough !" 
 says Sandy. And they all go in and purchase largely. 
 
 As far as I have been able to discover, the row be- 
 tween Svengali and his first violin had occurred at a 
 rehearsal in Drury Lane Theatre. 
 
 Svengali, it seems, had never been quite the same 
 since the 15th of October previous, and that was the 
 day he had got his face slapped and his nose tweaked 
 by Taffy in Paris. He had become short-tempered 
 and irritable, especially with his wife (if she was his 
 wife). Svengali, it seems, had reasons for passionately 
 hating Little Billee. 
 
 24 
 
370 
 
 He had not seen him for five years — not since the 
 Christmas festivity in the Place St. Anatole, when 
 they had sparred together after supper, and Svengah's 
 nose had got in the way on this occasion, and had 
 been made to bleed ; but that was not why he hated 
 Little Billee. 
 
 When he caught sight of him standing on the curb 
 in the Place de la Concorde and watching the proces- 
 sion of " tout Paris," he knew him directly, and all his 
 hate flared up; he cut him dead, and made his wife 
 do the same. 
 
 Kext morning he saw him again in the hotel post- 
 office, looking small and weak and flurried, and appar- 
 ently alone; and being an Oriental Israelite Hebrew 
 Jew, he had not been able to resist the temptation 
 of spitting in his face, since he must not throttle him 
 to death. 
 
 The minute he liad done this he had regretted the 
 folly of it. Little Billee had run after him, and kicked 
 and struck him, and he had returned the blow and 
 drawn blood ; and then, sudck^nly and quite unexpect- 
 edly, had come upon the scene that apparition so 
 loathed and dreaded of old — tiie pig-headed York- 
 shireinan — the huge British philistine, the irresponsi- 
 ble bull, the junker, the ex-Crimean, Front-de-Boeuf, 
 who had always remimled him of the brutal and con- 
 temptuous sword-clanking, spur-jingiing aristocrats of 
 his own country — ruffians tiiat treated Jews like dogs. 
 Callous as he was to the woes of others, the self- 
 indulgent and highly -strung musician was extra sensi- 
 tive about himself — a very bundle of nerves — and 
 especially sensitive to pain and rough usage, and by 
 
371 
 
 no means physically brave. The stern, choleric, in- 
 vincible blue eye of the hated Northern gentile had 
 cowed him at once. And that violent tweaking of 
 his nose, that heavy open-handed blow on his face, 
 had so shaken and demoralized him that he had never 
 recovered from it. 
 
 He was thinking about it always — night and day 
 — and constantly dreaming at night that he was be- 
 ing tweaked and slapped over again by a colossal 
 nightmare Taffy, and waking up in agonies of terror, 
 rage, and shame. All healthy sleep had forsaken 
 him. 
 
 Moreover, he was much older than he looked — 
 nearly fifty — and far from sound. His life had been 
 a long, hard struggle. 
 
 He had for his wife, slave, and pupil a fierce, jeal- 
 ous kind of affection that was a source of endless tor- 
 ment to him ; for indelibly graven in her heart, which 
 he wished to occupy alone, was the never-fading im- 
 age of the little English painter, and of this she made 
 no secret. 
 
 Gecko no longer cared for the master. All Gecko's 
 doglike devotion was concentrated on the slave and 
 pupil, Avhom he worshipped with a fierce but pure 
 and unselfish passion. The only living soul that 
 Svengali could trust was the old Jewess who lived 
 with them — his relative — but even she had come to 
 love the pupil as much as the master. 
 
 On the occasion of this rehearsal at Drury Lane he 
 (Svengali) was conducting and Madame Svengali was 
 singing. He interrupted her several times, angrily 
 and most unjustly, and told her she was singing out 
 
373 
 
 of tune, " like a verfluchter tomcat," which was quite 
 untrue. She was singing beautifully, " Home, Sweet 
 Home." 
 
 Finally he struck her two or three smart blows on 
 her knuckles with his little baton, and she fell on her 
 knees, weeping and crying out : 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! Svengali ! ne me battez pas, mon ami — 
 je fais tout ce que je peux!" 
 
 On which little Gecko had suddenly jumped np and 
 struck Svengali on the neck near the collar-bone, and 
 then it was seen that he had a little bloody knife in 
 his hand, and blood flowed from Svengali's neck, and 
 at the sight of it Svengali had fainted ; and Madame 
 Svengali had taken his head on her lap, lookmg dazed 
 and stupefied, as in a waking dream. 
 
 Gecko had been disarmed, but as Svengali recov- 
 ered from his faint and was taken home, the police 
 had not been sent for, and the affair was hushed up, 
 and a public scandal avoided. But la Svengali's first 
 
 appearance, to Monsieur J 's despair, had to be 
 
 put off for a week. For Svengali would not allow 
 her to sing without him ; nor, indeed, would he be 
 parted from her for a minute, or trust her out of his 
 sight. 
 
 The wound was a slight one. The doctor who at- 
 tended Svengali described the wife as being quite im- 
 becile, no doubt from grief and anxiety. But she 
 never left her husband's bedside for a moment, and 
 had the obedience and devotion of a dog. 
 
 When the night came round for the postponed de- 
 but, Svengali was allowed by the doctor to go to the 
 theatre, but he was absolutely forbidden to conduct. 
 
374 
 
 His grief and anxiety at this were uncontrollable ; he 
 raved like a madman; and Monsieur J was al- 
 most as bad. 
 
 Monsieur J had been conducting the Sven- 
 
 gali band at rehearsals during the week, in the ab- 
 sence of its master — an easy task. It had been so 
 thoroughly drilled and knew its business so well that it 
 could almost conduct itself, and it had played all the 
 music it had to play (much of which consisted of accom- 
 paniments to la Svengali's songs) many times before. 
 Her repertoire was immense, and Svengali had written 
 these orchestral scores with great care and felicity. 
 
 On the famous night it was arranged that Svengali 
 should sit in a box alone, exactly opposite his wife's 
 place on the platform, where she could see him well ; 
 and a code of simple signals was arranged between him 
 
 and Monsieur J and the band, so that virtually 
 
 he might conduct, himself, from his box should any 
 hesitation or hitch occur. This arrangement was re- 
 hearsed the day before (a Sunday) and had turned 
 out quite successfully, and la Svengali had sung in 
 perfection in the empty theatre. 
 
 When Monday evening arrived everything seemed 
 to be going smoothly ; the house was soon crammed 
 to suffocation, all but the middle box on the grand 
 tier. It was not a promenade concert, and the pit 
 was turned into guinea stalls (the promenade concerts 
 were to be given a week later). 
 
 Right in the middle of these stalls sat the Laird 
 and Taffy and Little Billee. 
 
 The band came in by degrees and tuned their in- 
 struments. 
 
375 
 
 Eyes were constantly being turned to the empty 
 box, and people wondered what royal personages 
 would appear. 
 
 Monsieur J took his place amid immense ap- 
 plause, and bowed in his inimitable way, looking often 
 at the empty box. 
 
 Then he tapped and waved his baton, and the band 
 played its Hungarian dance music with immense suc- 
 cess ; Avhen this was over there was a pause, and soon 
 some signs of impatience from the gallery. Monsieur 
 J had disappeared. 
 
 Taffy stood up, his back to the orchestra, looking 
 round. 
 
 Some one came into the empt}^ box, and stood for 
 a moment in front, gazing at the house. A tall 
 man, deathly pale, with long black hair and a beard. 
 
 It was Svengali. 
 
 He caught sight 
 of Taffy and met 
 his eyes, and Taffy 
 said r " Good God ! 
 Look! look!" 
 
 Then Little Bil- 
 lee and the Laird 
 got up and looked. 
 
 And Svengali for 
 a moment glared at 
 them. And the ex- 
 pression of his face 
 was so terrible with, 
 wonder, rage, and 
 fear that they were 
 
 'hast thou found me, o mine enemy?" 
 
376 
 
 quite appalled — and then he sat down, still glaring at 
 Taffy, the whites of his eyes showing at tlie top, and 
 his teeth bared in a spasmodic grin of hate. 
 
 Then thunders of applause filled the house, and 
 turning round and seating themselves, Taffy and Lit- 
 tle Billee and the Laird saw Trilby being led by J 
 
 down the platform, between the players, to the front, 
 her face smiling rather vacantly, her eyes anxiously 
 intent on Svengali in his box. 
 
 She made her bows to right and left just as she had 
 done in Paris. 
 
 The band struck up the opening bars of " Ben Bolt," 
 with which she was announced to make her debut. 
 
 She still stared — but she didn't sing — and they 
 played the little symphony three times. 
 
 One could hear Monsieur J in a hoarse, anxious 
 
 whisper saying, 
 
 " Mais chantez done, madame — pour I'amour de 
 Dieu, commencez done — commencez !" 
 
 She turned round with an extraordinary expression 
 of face, and said, 
 
 " Chanter ? pourquoi done voulez-vous que je chaute, 
 moi ? chanter quoi, alors ?" 
 
 " Mais ' Ben Bolt,' parbleu — chantez !" 
 
 " Ah — 'Ben Bolt!' oui — je connais 9a!" 
 
 Then the band began again. 
 
 And she tried, but failed to begin herself. She 
 turned round and said, 
 
 " Comment diable voulez-vous que je chante avec 
 tout ce train qu'ils font, ces diables de musiciens !" 
 
 " Mais, mon Dieu, madame — qu'est-ce que vous avez 
 done ?" cried Monsieur J . 
 
378 
 
 "J'ai que j'aime raieux chanter sans toute cette 
 satanee musique, parbleu! J'aime mieux chanter 
 toute seule !" 
 
 " Sans musique, alors — mais chantez — chantez !" 
 
 The band was stopped — the house was in a state of 
 indescribable wonder and suspense. 
 
 She looked all round, and down at herself, and fin- 
 gered her dress. Then she looked up to the chande- 
 lier with a tender, sentimental smile, and began : 
 
 "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? 
 Sweet Alice with Lair so brown. 
 Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile—" 
 
 She had not got further than this when the whole 
 house was in an uproar — shouts from the gallery — 
 shouts of laughter, hoots, hisses, catcalls, cock-crows. 
 
 She stopped and glared like a brave lioness, and 
 called out : 
 
 " Qu'est-ce que vous avez done, tons ! tas de vieilles 
 pommes cuites que vous etes ! Est-ce qu'on a peur de 
 vous V and then, suddenly : 
 
 "Why, you're all English, aren't you? — what's all 
 the row about?— what have you brought me here for? 
 — what have / done, I should like to know ?" 
 
 And in asking these questions the depth and splen- 
 dor of her voice were so extraordinary — its tone so 
 pathetically feminine, yet so full of hurt and indignant 
 command, that the tumult was stilled for a moment. 
 
 It was the voice of some being from another world 
 — some insulted daughter of a race more puissant and 
 nobler than ours ; a voice that seemed as if it could 
 never utter a false note. 
 
379 
 
 Then came a voice from the gods in answer : 
 
 " Oh, ye're Henglish, har yer ? Why don't yer sing 
 as yer hought to sing — yer've got voice enough, any- 
 'o\v ! why don't yer sing in tune f " 
 
 " Sing in tune /" cried Trilby. " I didn't want to 
 sing at all — I only sang because I was asked to sing — 
 that gentleman asked rae — that French gentleman with 
 the white waistcoat ! I w^on't sing another note !" 
 
 " Oh, yer won't, won't 3'er ! then let us 'ave our 
 money back, or we'll know what for !" 
 
 And again the din broke out, and the uproar was 
 frightful. 
 
 Monsieur J screamed out across the theatre: 
 
 " Svengali ! Svengali ! qu'est-ce qu'elle a done, votre 
 femme ? . . . Elle est devenue folle !" 
 
 Indeed she had tried to sing " Ben Bolt," but had 
 sung it in her old way — as she used to sing it in the 
 quartier latin — the most lamentably grotesque per- 
 formance ever heard out of a human throat ! 
 
 "Svengali! Svengali!" shrieked poor Monsieur J , 
 
 gesticulating towards the box where Svengali was sit- 
 ting, quite impassible, gazing at Monsieur J , and 
 
 smiling a ghastly, sardonic smile, a rictus of hate and 
 triumphant revenge — as if he were saying, 
 
 " I've got the laugh of you all, this time!" 
 
 Taffy, the Laird, Little Billee, the whole house, were 
 now staring at Svengali, and his wife Avas forgotten. 
 
 She stood vacantly looking at everybody and ever}^- 
 
 thing — the chandelier, Monsieur J , Svengali in his 
 
 box, the people in the stalls, in the gallery — and smil- 
 ing as if the noisy scene amused and excited her. 
 
 " Svengali ! Svengali ! Svengali !" 
 
380 
 
 The whole house took up the cry, clerisivelj. Mon- 
 sieur J led Madame Svengali away ; she seemed 
 
 quite passive. That terrible figure of Svengali still 
 sat, immovable, watching his wife's retreat— still smil- 
 ing his ghastly smile. All eyes were now turned on 
 him once more. 
 
 Monsieur J was then seen to enter his box with 
 
 a policeman and two or three other men, one of them 
 in evening dress. He quickly drew the curtains to ; 
 then, a minute or two after, he reappeared on the plat- 
 form, bowing and scraping to the audience, as pale as 
 death, and called for silence, the gentleman in even- 
 ing dress by his side ; and this person explained that 
 a ver}^ dreadful thing had happened — that Monsieur 
 Svengali had suddenly died in that box — of apoplexy 
 or heart-disease ; that his wife had seen it from her 
 place on the stage, and had apparently gone out of 
 her senses, which accounted for her extraordinary be- 
 havior. 
 
 He added that the money would be returned at the 
 doors, and begged the audience to disperse quietly. 
 
 Taffy, Avith his two friends behind him, forced his 
 way to a stage door he knew. The Laird had no 
 longer any doubts on the score of Trilby's identity 
 — this Trilby, at all events ! 
 
 Taffy knocked and thumped till the door was opened, 
 and gave his card to tlie man who opened it, stating 
 that he and his friends were old friends of Madame 
 Svengali, and must see her at once. 
 
 The man tried to slam the door in his face, but 
 Taffy pushed through, and shut it on the crowd out- 
 side, and insisted on being taken to Monsieur J 
 
381 
 
 immediately ; and was so authoritative and big, and 
 looked such a swell, that the man was cowed, and 
 led him. 
 
 They passed an open door, through which they had 
 a glimpse of a prostrate form on a table — a man par- 
 tially undressed, and some men bending over him, doc- 
 tors probably. 
 
 That was the last they saw of Svengali. 
 
 Then they were taken to another door, and Monsieur 
 
 J came out, and Taffy explained who they were, 
 
 and they were admitted. 
 
 La Svengali was there, sitting in an arm-chair by 
 the fire, with several of the band standing round ges- 
 ticulating, and talking German or Polish or Yiddish. 
 Gecko, on his knees, was alternately chafing her hands 
 and feet. She seemed quite dazed. 
 
 But at the sight of Taffy she jumped up and rushed 
 at him, saying : " Oh, Taffy dear — oh, Taffy ! what's 
 it all about ? Where on earth am I ? What an age 
 since we met V 
 
 Then she caught sight of the Laird, and kissed him ; 
 and then she recognized Little Billee. 
 
 She looked at him for a long while in great surprise, 
 and then shook hands with him. 
 
 " How pale you are ! and so changed — you've got 
 a mustache! What's the matter? Why are you all 
 dressed in black, with white cravats, as if you were 
 going to a ball? Where's Svengali ? I should like to 
 go home !" 
 
 " Where — what do you call — home, I mean — where 
 is it?" asked Taffy. 
 
 " C'est a I'hotel de Normandie, dans le Haymarket. 
 
383 
 
 On va vous y conduire, raadame !" said Monsieur 
 J . 
 
 " Qui — c'est 9a !" said Triiby — " Hotel de Norman- 
 die — mais Svengali— ou est-ce qu'il est ?" 
 
 " Helas ! madaine — il est tres malade !" 
 
 " Malade ? Qu' est-ce qu'il a ? How funny you look, 
 with your mustache, Little Billee ! dear, dear Little 
 Billee! so pale, so very pale! Are you ill too? Oh, 
 I hope not ! How glad I am to see you again — you 
 can't tell ! though I promised your mother I wouldn't 
 — never, never ! Where are we now, dear Little Bil- 
 lee?" 
 
 Monsieur J seemed to have lost his head. He 
 
 was constantly running in and out of the room, dis- 
 tracted. The bandsmen began to talk and try to ex- 
 plain, in incomprehensible French, to Taffy. Gecko 
 seemed to have disappeared. It was a bewildering 
 business — noises from outside, the tramp and bustle 
 and shouts of the departing crowd, people running in 
 
 and out and asking for Monsieur J , policemen, 
 
 firemen, and what not ! 
 
 Then Little Billee, who had been exerting the most 
 heroic self-control, suggested that Trilby should come 
 to his house in Fitzroy Square, first of all, and be taken 
 out of all this — and the idea struck Taffy as a happy 
 
 one — and it was proposed to Monsieur J , who saw 
 
 that our three friends were old friends of Madame 
 Svengali's, and people to be trusted ; and he was only 
 too glad to be relieved of her, and gave his consent. 
 
 Little Billee and Taffy drove to Fitzroy Square to 
 prepare Little Billee's landlady, who was much put 
 out at first at having such a novel and unexpected 
 
384 
 
 charge imposed on her. It was all explained to her 
 that it must be so. That Madame Svengali, the great- 
 est singer in Europe and an old friend of her tenant's, 
 had suddenly gone out of her mind from grief at the 
 traffic death of her husband, and that for this night 
 at least the unhappy lady must sleep under that roof — 
 indeed, in Little Billee's own bed, and that he would 
 sleep at a hotel ; and that a nurse would be provided 
 at once — it might be only for that one night ; and 
 that the lady was as quiet as a lamb, and would prob- 
 ably recover her faculties after a night's rest. A doc- 
 tor was sent for from close by ; and soon Trilby ap- 
 peared, with the Laird, and her appearance and her 
 magnificent sables impressed Mrs. Godwin, the land- 
 lady — brought her figuratively on her knees. Then 
 Tafi'y, the Laird, and Little Billee departed again and 
 dispersed — to procure a nurse for the night, to find 
 Gecko, to fetch some of Trilby's belongings from the 
 Hotel de Normandie, and her maid. 
 
 The maid (the old German Jew^ess and Svengali's 
 relative), distracted by the news of her master's death, 
 had o-one to the theatre. Gecko was in the hands of 
 the police. Things had got to a terrible pass. But 
 our three friends did their best, and were up most of 
 the night. 
 
 So much for la Svengali's debut in London. 
 
 The present scribe w^as not present on that memo- 
 rable occasion, and has written this inadequate and 
 most incomplete description partly from hearsay and 
 private information, partly from the reports in the 
 contemporary newspapers. 
 
 Should any surviving eye-witness of that lamentable 
 
385 
 
 fiasco read these pages, and see an}^ gross inaccuracy 
 in this bald account of it, the P. S. will feel deeply 
 obliged to the same for any corrections or additions, 
 and these will be duly acted upon and gratefully ac- 
 knowledged in all subsequent editions ; which will be 
 numerous, no doubt, on account of the great interest 
 still felt in "la Svengali," even by those who never 
 saw or heard her (and they are many), and also be- 
 cause the present scribe is better qualified (by his op- 
 portunities) for the compiling of this brief biographical 
 sketch than any person now living, with the exception, 
 of course, of " Taffy " and " the Laird," to whose kind- 
 ness, even more than to his own personal recollections, 
 he owes whatever it may contain of serious historical 
 value. 
 
 Next morning they all three went to Fitzroy Square. 
 Little Billee had slept at Taffy's rooms in Jermyn 
 Street. 
 
 Trilby seemed quite pathetically glad to see them 
 again. She was dressed simply and plainly — in black ; 
 her trunks had been sent from the hotel. 
 
 The hospital nurse was with her ; the doctor 
 had just left. He had said that she was suffering 
 from some great nervous shock — a pretty safe diag- 
 nosis ! 
 
 Her wits had apparently not come back, and she 
 seemed in no way to realize her position. 
 
 " Ah ! what it is to see you again, all three ! It 
 makes one feel glad to be alive! I've thought of 
 many things, but never of this — never ! Three nice 
 clean Englishmen, all speaking English — and such dear 
 
 5i5 
 
" ' THREE NICE CLEAN ENGLISHMEN ' " 
 
 old friends! Ah! j'aime tant §a — c'est le ciel! I 
 "wonder I've got a word of English left !" 
 
 Her voice was so soft and sweet and low that these 
 ingenuous remarks sounded like a beautiful son«:. 
 And she "made the soft eyes" at them all three, one 
 after another, in her old way; and the soft eyes 
 quickly filled with tears. 
 
 She seemed ill and Aveak and worn out, and insisted 
 on keeping the Laird's hand in hers. 
 
 "What's the matter with Svengali? He must be 
 dead !" 
 
 They all three looked at each other, perplexed. 
 
387 
 
 " Ah ! he's dead ! I can see it in your faces. He'd 
 got heart-disease. I'm sorry ! oh, very sorry indeed ! 
 He was always very kind, poor Svengali !" 
 
 " Yes. He's dead," said Taffy. 
 
 "And Gecko — dear little Gecko — is he dead too? 
 I saw him last night — he warmed my hands and feet : 
 where were we ?" 
 
 " No. Gecko's not dead. But he's had to be locked 
 up for a little while. He struck Svengali, you know. 
 You saw it all." 
 
 " I ? 'No ! I never saw it. But I dreamt some- 
 thing like it ! Gecko with a knife, and people holding 
 him, and Svengali bleeding on the ground. That was 
 just before Svengali's illness. He'd cut himself in the 
 neck, you know — with a rusty nail, he told me. I 
 wonder how ! . . . But it was wrong of Gecko to strike 
 him. They were such friends. Why did he ?" 
 
 " Well — it was because Svengali struck you with his 
 conductor's wand when you were rehearsing. Struck 
 you on the lingers and made you cry! don't you re- 
 member ?" 
 
 " Struck 7ne ! rehearsing f — made me cry ! what are 
 you talking about, dear Taffy % Svengali never struck 
 me ! he was kindness itself ! always ! and what should 
 / rehearse ?" 
 
 " Well, the songs you were to sing at the theatre in 
 the evening." 
 
 " Sing at the theatre ! / never sang at any theatre 
 — except last night, if that big place was a theatre ! 
 and they didn't seem to like it ! I'll take precious 
 good care ne'ver to sing in a theatre again ! How 
 they howled ! and there was Svengali in the box op- 
 
388 
 
 posite, laughing at me. Why was I taken there ? and 
 why did that funny httle Frenchman in the white 
 waistcoat ask me to sing? I know very well I can't 
 sing well enough to sing in a place like that ! What 
 a fool I was ! It all seems like a bad dream ! What 
 was it all about ? Was it a dream, I wonder !" 
 
 " Well — but don't you remember singing at Paris, 
 in the Salle des Bashibazoucks — and at Vienna — St. 
 Petersburg — lots of places ?" 
 
 "What nonsense, dear — you're thinking of some 
 one else! /never sang anywhere! Pve been to 
 Vienna and St. Petersburg — but I never sang there — 
 good heavens !" 
 
 Then there was a pause, and our three friends 
 looked at her helplessly. 
 
 Little Billee said: "Tell me. Trilby — what made 
 you cut me dead when I bowed to you in the Place 
 de la Concorde, and you were riding with Svengali in 
 that swell carriage ?" 
 
 " / never rode in a swell carriage with Svengali ! 
 omnibuses were more in our line ! You're dreaming, 
 dear Little Billee — you're taking me for somebody 
 else ; and as for my cutting yoic — why, I'd sooner cut 
 myself — into little pieces !" 
 
 " Where were you staying with Svengali in Paris?" 
 
 " I really forget. Were we in Paris. Oh yes, of 
 course. Hotel Bertrand, Place Notre Dame des Vic- 
 toires." 
 
 " How long have you been going about with Sven- 
 gali?" 
 
 " Oh, months, years — I forget. I was very ill. He 
 cured me." 
 
389 
 
 ". Ill ! What was the matter ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I was mad with grief, and pain in my eyes, 
 and wanted to kill myself, when I lost my dear little 
 Jeannot, at Vibraye. 
 
 I fancied I hadn't been a/z^ .^>^/■--Uk,^ >.y^— "^/^ ':>^'XlJ^y^y 
 careful enough with 
 him. I was crazed ! 
 Don't you remember 
 writing to me there, 
 Taff}' — through An- 
 gele Boisse ? Such a 
 sweet letter you wrote ! 
 I know it by heart 1 
 And 3^ou too, Sandy"; 
 and she kissed him. 
 " I wonder where they 
 are, your letters ? — 
 I've got nothing of my 
 own in the world — not 
 even your dear letters 
 — nor little Billee's — 
 such lots of them ! 
 
 " Well, Svengali used 
 to write to me too^ — 
 and then he got my ad- 
 dress from Angele. . . . 
 
 " When Jeannot died, I felt I must kill myself or 
 get away from Vibraye — get away from the people 
 there — so when he was buried I cut my hair short and 
 got a workman's cap and blouse and trousers and 
 walked all the way to Paris without saying anything 
 to anybody. I didn't vrant anybody to know ; I 
 
 " P(ENA PEDE CLAUDO " 
 
390 
 
 wanted to escape from Svengali, who wrote that" he 
 was coming there to fetch me. I wanted to hide in 
 Paris. When I got there at last it was two o'clock 
 in the morning, and I was in dreadful pain — and I'd 
 lost all my money — thirty francs — through a hole in 
 my trousers -pocket. Besides, I had a row with a 
 carter in the Halle. He thought I was a man, and hit 
 me and gave me a black eye, just because I patted his 
 horse and fed it with a carrot I'd been trying to eat 
 myself. He was tipsj^, I think. Well, I looked over 
 the bridge at the river — just by the Morgue — and 
 wanted to jump in. But the Morgue sickened me, so 
 I hadn't the pluck. Svengali used to be always talk- 
 ing about the Morgue, and my going there some day. 
 He used to say he'd come and look at me there, and 
 the idea made me so sick I couldn't. I got bewildered, 
 and quite stupid. 
 
 " Then I went to Angele's, in the Rue des Cloitres 
 Ste, Petronille, and waited about ; but I hadn't the 
 courage to ring, so I went to the Place St. Anatole 
 des Arts, and looked up at the old studio window, and 
 thought how comfortable it was in there, Avith the big 
 settee near the stove, and all that, and felt inclined to 
 ring up Madame Vinard ; and then I remembered 
 Little Billee was ill there, and liis mother and sister 
 were with him. Angele had written me, you know. 
 Poor Little Billee ! There he was, very ill ! 
 
 " So I walked about the place, and up and down the 
 Rue des Mauvais Ladres. Then I went down the Rue 
 de Seine to the river again, and again I hadn't the 
 pluck to jump in. Besides, there was a sergent de 
 ville who followed and watched me. And the fun of 
 
391 
 
 it was that I knew hiin quite well, and he didn't know 
 me a bit. It was Celestin Beaumollet, who got so 
 tipsy on Christmas night. Don't you remember ? The 
 tall one, who was pitted with the small-pox. 
 
 " Then I walked about till near daylight. Then 
 I could stand it no longer, and went to Svengali's, in 
 the Eue Tireliard, but he'd moved to the Eue des 
 Saints Peres; and 
 I went there and 
 found him. I didn't 
 want to a bit, but I 
 couldn't help myself. 
 It was fate, I sup- 
 pose ! He was very 
 kind, and cured me 
 almost directly, and 
 got me coffee and 
 bread - and - butter — 
 the best I ever tasted 
 — and a warm bath 
 from Bidet Freres, in 
 the Rue Savonarole. 
 It was heavenly ! 
 And I slept for two 
 day s a n d t w o n igh ts ! 
 And then he told me 
 how fond he was of 
 me, and how he 
 would always cure 
 me, and take care of 
 me, and marry me, 
 if I would go away "the old studio" 
 
392 
 
 with him. He said he Avould devote his whole life to 
 me, and took a small room for me, next to his. 
 
 " I stayed with him there a w^eek, never going out or 
 seeing any one, mostly asleep. I'd caught a chill. 
 
 " He played in two concerts and made a lot of 
 money ; and then we went away to Germany to- 
 gether; and no one was a bit the wiser." 
 
 " And did he marry you ?" 
 
 "Well — no. He couldn't, poor fellow! He'd al- 
 ready got a wife living; and three children, which he 
 declared were not his. They live in Elberfeld in 
 Prussia ; she keeps a small sweet-stuff shop there. He 
 behaved very badly to them. But it was not through 
 me ! He'd deserted them long before ; but he used to 
 send them plenty of money when he'd got any ; I 
 made him, for I was very sorry for her. He was al- 
 ways talking about her, and what she said and what 
 she did ; and imitating her saying her prayers and 
 eating pickled cucumber with one hand and drinking 
 schnapps with the other, so as not to lose any time ; 
 till he made me die of laughing. He could be very 
 funny, Svengali, though he was German, poor dear! 
 And then Gecko joined us, and Marta." 
 
 "Who's Marta?" 
 
 " His aunt. She cooked for us, and all that. She's 
 coming here presently ; she sent word from the hotel ; 
 she's very fond of him. Poor Marta ! Poor Gecko ! 
 What will they ever do without Svengali ?" 
 
 " Then what did he do to live V 
 
 " Oh ! he played at concerts, I suppose — and all 
 that." 
 
 " Did vou ever hear him ?" 
 
393 
 
 " Yes. Sometimes Marta took me ; at the begin- 
 ning, you know. He was alwa3^s very much ap- 
 pkxuded. He plays beautifully. Everybody said so." 
 
 " Did he never try and teach you to sing ?" 
 
 " Oh, maie, aie ! not he ! Why, he always laughed 
 when I tried to sing; and so did Marta; and so did 
 Gecko! It made them roar! I used to sing ' Ben 
 Bolt.' They used to make me, just for fun — and go 
 into fits, /didn't mind a scrap. I'd had no training, 
 you know !" 
 
 "Was there anybody else he knew — any other 
 woman V 
 
 "Not that 1 know of! He always made out he 
 w^as so fond of me that he couldn't even look at an- 
 other woman. Poor Svengali I" (Here her eyes filled 
 with tears again.) " He was always very kind ! But 
 I never could be fond of him in the way he wished — 
 never ! It made me sick even to think of ! Once I 
 used to hate him — in Paris — in the studio ; don't you 
 remember \ 
 
 " He hardl}^ ever left me ; and then Marta looked 
 after me — for I've always been weak and ill — and 
 often so languid that I could hardly walk across the 
 room. It was that walk from Yibraye to Paris. I 
 never got over it. 
 
 " I used to try and do all I could — be a daughter to 
 him, as I couldn't be anything else — mend his things, 
 and all that, and cook him little French dishes. I 
 fancy he was very poor at one time ; we were always 
 moving from place to place. But I always had the 
 best of everything. He insisted on that — even if he 
 had to go without himself. It made him quite un- 
 
394 
 
 happy when I wouldn't eat, so I used to force my- 
 self. 
 
 " Then, as soon as I felt uneasy about things, or 
 had any pain, he would say, ' Dors, ma mignonne !' 
 and I would sleep at once — for hours, I think — and 
 wake up, oh, so tired ! and find him kneeling by me, 
 always so anxious and kind — and Marta and Gecko ! 
 and sometimes we had the doctor, and I was ill in 
 bed. 
 
 " Gecko used to dine and breakfast with us — you've 
 no idea what an angel he is, poor little Gecko ! But 
 what a dreadful thing to strike Svengali ! Why did 
 he? Svengali taught him all he knows!" 
 
 "And you knew no one else — no other woman?" 
 
 "No one that I can remember — except Marta — not 
 a soul !" 
 
 " And that beautiful dress you had on last night ?" 
 
 "It isn't mine. It's on the bed up-stairs, and so's 
 the fur cloak. They belong to Marta. She's got lots 
 of them, lovely things — silk, satin, velvet — and lots 
 of beautiful jewels. Marta deals in them, and makes 
 lots of money. 
 
 " I've often tried them on ; I'm very easy to fit," 
 she said, " being so tall and thin. And poor Svengali 
 would kneel down and cry, and kiss my hands and 
 feet, and tell me I was his goddess and empress, and 
 all that, which I hate. And Marta used to cry, too. 
 And then he would say, 
 
 " 'Et maintenant dors, ma mignonne !' 
 
 " And when I woke up I was so tired that I went to 
 sleep again on my own account. 
 
 " But he Avas very patient. Oh, dear me ! I've al- 
 
ways been a poor, helpless, useless log and burden to 
 him! 
 
 " Once I actually walked in my sleep — and woke up 
 in the market-place at Prague — and found an immense 
 crowd, and poor Svengali bleeding from the forehead, 
 in a faint on the ground. He'd been knocked down 
 by a horse and cart, he told me. He'd got his guitar 
 with him. I suppose he and G-ecko had been playing 
 somewhere, for Gecko had his fiddle. If Gecko hadn't 
 been there, I don't know what we should have done. 
 You never saw such queer people as the}" were — such 
 crowds — you'd think they'd never seen an English- 
 woman before. The noise they made, and the things 
 they gave me . . . some of them went down on their 
 knees, and kissed my hands and the skirts of my gown. 
 
 " He was ill in bed for a week after that, and I 
 nursed him, and he was very grateful. Poor Svengali ! 
 God knows / felt grateful to him for manj^ things ! 
 Tell me how he died ! I hope he hadn't much pain." 
 
 They told her it was quite sudden, from heart-dis- 
 ease. 
 
 " Ah ! I knew he had that ; he wasn't a healthy 
 man ; he used to smoke too much. Marta used always 
 to be very anxious." 
 
 Just then Marta came in. 
 
 Marta was a fat, elderly Jewess of rather a grotesque 
 and ignoble type. She seemed overcome with grief — 
 all but prostrate. 
 
 Trilby hugged and kissed her, and took off her bon- 
 net and shawl, and made her sit down in a big arm- 
 chair, and got her a footstool. 
 
 She couldn't speak a word of anything but Polish 
 
397 
 
 and a little German. Trilby had also picked np a little 
 German, and with this and by means of signs, and no 
 doubt through a long intimacy with each other's ways, 
 they understood each other very well. She seemed a 
 very good old creature, and very fond of Trilby, but 
 in mortal terror of the three Englishmen. 
 
 Lunch was brought up for the two women and the 
 nurse, and our friend^s left them, promising to come 
 again that day. 
 
 They were utterly bewildered ; and the Laird would 
 have it that there was another Madame Svengali some- 
 where, the real one, and that Trilby was a fraud^self- 
 deceived and self-deceiving — quite unconsciously so, of 
 course. 
 
 Truth looked out of her eyes, as it always had done 
 — truth was in every line of her face. 
 
 The truth only — nothing but the truth could ever 
 be told in that "voice of velvet," which rang as true 
 when she spoke as that of any thrush or nightingale, 
 however rebellious it might be now (and forever per- 
 haps) to artificial melodic laws and limitations and re- 
 straints. The long training it had been subjected to 
 had made it " a wonder, a world's delight," and though 
 she might never sing another note, her mere speech 
 would always be more golden than any silence, what- 
 ever she might say. 
 
 Except on the one particular point of her singing, 
 she had seemed absolutely sane — so, at least, thought 
 Ta£fy. the Laird, and Little Billee. And each thought 
 to himself, besides, that this last incarnation of Trilby- 
 ness was quite the sweetest, most touching, most en- 
 dearing of all. 
 
398 
 
 They had not failed to note how rapidly she had 
 aged, now that they had seen her without her rouge 
 and pearl-powder ; she looked thirty at least — she was 
 only twenty-three. 
 
 Her hands were almost transparent in their waxen 
 whiteness ; delicate little frosty wrinkles had gathered 
 round her eyes ; there were gray streaks in her hair ; 
 all strength and straightness and elasticity seemed to 
 have gone out of her with the memory of her endless 
 triumphs (if she really was la Svengali), and of her 
 many wanderings from city to city all over i^urope. 
 
 It was evident enough that the sudden stroke which 
 had destroyed her power of singing had left her phys- 
 ically a wreck. 
 
 But she was one of those rarely gifted beings who 
 cannot look or speak or even stir without waking up 
 (and satisfying) some vague longing that lies dormant 
 in the hearts of most of us, men and women alike ; 
 grace, charm, magnetism — whatever the nameless se- 
 duction should be called that she possessed to such an 
 unusual degree — she had lost none of it when she lost 
 her high spirits, her buoyant health and energy, her 
 wits! 
 
 Tuneless and insane, she was more of a siren than 
 ever — a quite unconscious siren — without any guile, 
 who appealed to the heart all the more directly and 
 irresistibly that she could no longer stir the passions. 
 
 All this was keenly felt by all three — each in his 
 different way — by Taffy and Little Billee especially. 
 
 All her past life was forgiven — her sins of omission 
 and commission ! And whatever might be her fate — 
 recovery, madness, disease, or death — the care of her 
 
399 
 
 till she died or recovered should be the principal busi- 
 ness of their lives. 
 
 Both had loved her. All three, perhaps. One had 
 been loved by her as passionately, as purely, as un- 
 selfishly as any man could wish to be loved, and in 
 some extraordinary manner had recovered, after many 
 years, at the mere sudden sight and sound of her, his 
 lost share in our common inheritance — the power to 
 love, and all its joy and sorrow ; without which he 
 had found life not worth living, though he had pos- 
 sessed every other gift and blessing in such abundance. 
 
 " Oh, Circe, poor Circe, dear Circe, divine enchant- 
 ress that you were !" he said to himself, in his excit- 
 able w^ay. " A mere look from your eyes, a mere note 
 of your heavenly voice, has turned a poor, miserable, 
 callous brute back into a man again! and I will never 
 forget it — never ! And now that a still worse trouble 
 than mine has befallen you, you shall always be first 
 in my thoughts till the end !" 
 
 And Taffy felt pretty much the same, though he 
 was not by way of talking to himself so eloquent 
 about things as Little Billee. 
 
 As they lunched, they read the accounts of the pre- 
 vious evening's events in different papers, three or four 
 of which (including the Times) had already got lead- 
 ers about the famous but unhappy singer who had 
 been so suddenly widowed and struck down in the 
 midst of her glory. All these accounts were more or 
 less correct. In one paper it was mentioned that Ma- 
 dame Svengali Was under the roof and care of Mr. 
 William Bagot, the painter, in Fitzroy Square. 
 
400 
 
 The inquest on Svengali was to take place that after- 
 noon, and also Gecko's examination at the Bow Street 
 Police Court, for his assault. 
 
 Taffy was allowed to see Gecko, who was remanded 
 till the result of the post-mortem should be made pub- 
 
 ' TAFFY WAS ALLOWED TO SKE GECKO 
 
 lie. But beyond inquiring most anxiously and mi- 
 nutely after Trilby, and betraying the 'most passionate 
 concern for her, he would say nothing, and seemed in- 
 different as to his own fate. 
 
 When they went to Fitzroy Square, late in the after- 
 
*401 
 
 noon, they found that many people, musical, literary, 
 fashionable, and otherwise (and many foreigners), had 
 called to inquire after Madame Svengali, but no one 
 had been admitted to see her. Mrs. Godwin was much 
 elated by the importance of her new lodger. 
 
 Trilby had been writing to Ang^le Boisse, at her 
 old address in the Rue des Cloitres Ste. Petronille, in 
 the hope that this letter would find her still there. 
 She was anxious to go back and be a Uanchisseuse de 
 Jin with her friend. It was a kind of nostalgia for 
 Paris, the quartier latin, her clean old trade. 
 
 This project our three heroes did not think it nec- 
 essary to discuss with her just yet ; she seemed quite 
 unfit for work of any kind. 
 
 The doctor, who had seen her again, had been puz- 
 zled by her strange physical weakness, and wished for 
 a consultation with some special authority ; Little Bil- 
 lee, who was intimate with most of the great physi- 
 cians, wrote about her to Sir Oliver Calthorpe. 
 
 She seemed to find a deep happiness in being with 
 her three old friends, and talked and listened with all 
 her old eagerness and geniality, and much of her old 
 gayety, in spite of her strange and sorrowful position. 
 But for this it was impossible to realize that her brain 
 was affected in the slightest degree, except when some 
 reference was made to her singing, and this seemed to 
 annoy and irritate her, as though she w^ere being made 
 fun of. The whole of her marvellous musical career, 
 and everything connected with it, had been clean 
 wiped out of her recollection. 
 
 She was very anxious to get into other quarters, 
 
 that Little Billee should suffer no inconvenience, and 
 26 
 
402* 
 
 they promised to take rooms for her and Marta on the 
 morrow. 
 
 They told her cautiously all about Svengali and 
 Gecko ; she was deeply concerned, but betrayed no 
 such poignant anguish as might have been expected. 
 The thought of Gecko troubled her most, and she 
 showed much anxiet}'^ as to Avhat might befall him. 
 
 Next day she moved with Marta to some lodgings 
 in Charlotte Street, where everything was made as 
 comfortable for them as possible. 
 
 Sir Oliver saw her with Dr. Thorne (the doctor who 
 was attending her) and Sir Jacob Wilcox. 
 
 Sir Oliver took the greatest interest in her case, both 
 for her sake and his friend Little Billee's. Also his 
 own, for he was charmed with her. He saw her three 
 times in the course of the week, but could not say for 
 certain what was the matter with her, beyond taking 
 the very gravest view of her condition. For all he 
 could advise or prescribe, her weakness and physical 
 prostration increased rapidly, through no cause he 
 could discover. Her insanity was not enough to ac- 
 count for it. She lost weight daily; she seemed to be 
 wasting and fading away from sheer general atrophy. 
 
 Two or three times he took her and Marta for a 
 driv^e. 
 
 On one of these occasions, as they went clown Char- 
 lotte Street, she saw a shop with transparent French 
 blinds in the window, and through them some French 
 women, with neat white caps, ironing. It Avas a French 
 hlanchisserie defin, and the sight of it interested and 
 excited her so much that she must needs insist on be- 
 ing put down and on going into it. 
 
403 
 
 " Je voudrais bien parler a la patronne, si 9a ne la 
 derange pas," she said. 
 
 The patronne, a genial Parisian, was much aston- 
 ished to hear a great French lady, in costly garments, 
 
 A FAIR BLANCHISSEUSE DE FIN 
 
 evidently a person of fashion and importance, apply- 
 ing to her rather humbly for employment in the busi- 
 ness, and showing a thorough knowledge of the work 
 (and of the Parisian work - woman's colloquial dia- 
 lect). Marta managed to catch the patronne's eye, and 
 
404 
 
 tapped her own forehead significantly, and Sir Oliver 
 nodded. So the good woman humored the great lady's 
 fancy, and promised her abundance of employment 
 whenever she should want it. 
 
 Employment ! Poor Trilby was hardly strong 
 enough to walk back to the carriage; and this was 
 her last outing. 
 
 But this little adventure had filled her with hope 
 and good spirits — for she had as yet received no an- 
 swer from Angcle Boisse (who was in Marseilles), and 
 had begun to realize how dreary the quartier latin 
 would be without Jeannot, without Angele, without 
 the trois Angliches in the Place St. Anatole des Arts. 
 
 She was not allowed to see any of the strangers who 
 came and made kind inquiries. This her doctors had 
 strictly forbidden. Any reference to music or singing 
 irritated her beyond measure. She would say to Marta, 
 in bad German : 
 
 " Tell them, Marta — what nonsense it is ! They are 
 taking me for another — they are mad. They are try- 
 ing: to make a fool of me !" 
 
 And Marta would betray great uneasiness — almost 
 terror — when she was appealed to in this way. 
 
Ipart JEiabtb 
 
 "La vie est vaine: 
 Un peu d'amour, 
 Un peu de liaine. . . . 
 Et puis — bonjour! 
 
 "La vie est breve: 
 Uu peu d'espoir, 
 Un peu de reve. . . . 
 Et puis — bonsoir." 
 
 SvENGALi had died from heart-disease. The cut he 
 had received from Gecko had not apparently (as far as 
 the verdict of a coroner's inquest could be trusted) had 
 any effect in aggravating his malady or hastening his 
 death. 
 
 But Gecko was sent for trial at the Old Bailey, and 
 sentenced to hard labor for six months (a sentence 
 which, if I remember aright, gave rise to much com- 
 ment at the time). Taffy saw him again, but with no 
 better result than before. He chose to preserve an 
 obstinate silence on his relations with the Svenffalis 
 and their relations with each other. 
 
 When he was told how hopelessly ill and insane 
 Madame Svengali was, he shed a few tears, and said : 
 " Ah, pauvrette, pauvrette — ah ! monsieur — je I'aimais 
 tant, je I'aimais tant ! il n'y en a pas beaucoup comme 
 elle, Dieu de misere! C'est un ange du Paradis !" 
 
 And not another word was to be got out of him. 
 
406 
 
 It took some time to settle Svengali's affairs after 
 his death. No will was found. His old mother came 
 over from Germany, and two of his sisters, but no 
 wife. The comic wife and the three children, and the 
 sweet-stuff shop in Eloerfeld, had been humorous in- 
 ventions of his own— a hind of Mrs. Harris! 
 
 Pie left three thousand pounds, every penny of 
 which (and of far larger sums that he had spent) had 
 baen earned by "la SvengaJi," but nothing came to 
 Trilby of this; nothing but the clothes and jewels he 
 had given her, and in this respect he had been lavish 
 enough ; and there were countless costly gifts from 
 emperors, kings, great people of all kinds. Trilby 
 was under the impression that all these belonged to 
 Marta. Marta behaved admirabl}^ ; she seemed bound 
 hand and foot to Trilby by a kind of slavish adora- 
 tion, as that of a plain old mother for a brilliant and 
 beautiful but dying child. 
 
 It soon became evident that, whatever her disease 
 might be, Trilby had but a very short time to live. 
 
 She was soon too weak even to be taken out in a 
 Bath-chair, and remained all day in her large sitting- 
 room with Marta ; and there, to her great and only 
 joy, she received her three old friends every after- 
 noon, and gave them coffee, and made them smoke 
 cigarettes of caporal as of old ; and their hearts were 
 daily harrowed as they watched her rapid decline. 
 
 Day by day she grew more beautiful in their eyes, 
 in spite of her increasing pallor and emaciation — her 
 skin was so pure and white and delicate, and the bones 
 of her face so admirable ! 
 
 Her eyes recovered all their old humorous bright- 
 
408 
 
 ness when les trois Angliches were with her, and the 
 expression of her face was so wistful and tender for 
 all her playfulness, so full of eager clinging to exist- 
 ence and to them, that tliey felt the memory of it 
 would haunt them forever, and be the sweetest and 
 saddest memory of their lives. 
 
 Her quick, though feeble gestures, full of reminis- 
 cences of the vigorous and lively girl they had known 
 a few years back, sent waves of pity through them 
 and pure brotherly love ; and the incomparable tones 
 and changes and modulations of her voice, as she chat- 
 ted and laughed, bewitched tliem almost as much as 
 when she had sung the " Nussbaum " of Schumann in 
 the Salle des Bashibazoucks. 
 
 Sometimes Lorrimer came, and Antony and the 
 Greek. It was like a genial little court of bohemia. 
 And Lorrimer, Antony, the Laird, and Little Billee 
 made those beautiful clialk and pencil studies of her 
 head which are now so well known — all so singularly 
 like her, and so singularly unlike each other ! Trilby 
 mied travers quatre temperaments! 
 
 These afternoons were probably the happiest poor 
 Trilby had ever spent in her life — with these dear 
 people round her, speaking the language she loved ; 
 talking of old times and jolly Paris days, she never 
 thought of the morrow. 
 
 But later — at night, in the small hours — she would 
 wake up with a start from some dream full of tender 
 and blissful recollection, and suddenly realize her own 
 mischance, and feel the icy hand of that which was to 
 come before many morrows were over ; and taste the 
 bitterness of death so keenly that she longed to scream 
 
409 
 
 out loud, and get up, and walk up and down, and 
 wring her hands at the dreadful thought of parting 
 forever ! 
 
 But she lay motionless and mum as a poor little 
 frightened mouse in a trap, for fear of waking up the 
 good old tired Marta, who was snoring at her side. 
 
 And in an hour or two the bitterness would pass 
 away, the creeps and the horrors; and the stoical 
 spirit of resignation would steal over her — the balm, 
 the blessed calm ! and all her old bravery would come 
 back. 
 
 And then she would sink into sleep again, and 
 dream more blissfully than ever, till the good Marta 
 woke her with a motherly kiss and a fragrant cup of 
 cotfee ; and she would find, feeble as she was, and 
 doomed as she felt herself to be, that joy cometh of a 
 morning ; and life was still sweet for her, with yet a 
 whole day to look forward to. 
 
 One day she was deeply moved at receiving a visit 
 from Mrs. Bagot, who, at Little Billee's earnest desire, 
 had come all the way from Devonshire to see her. 
 
 As the graceful little lady came in, pale and trem- 
 bling all over, Trilby rose from her chair to receive 
 her, and rather timidly put out her hand, and smiled 
 in a frightened manner. Neither could speak for a 
 second. Mrs. Bagot stood stock-still by the door gaz- 
 ing (with all her heart in her eyes) at the so terribly 
 altered Trilby — the girl she had once so dreaded. 
 
 Trilby, who seemed also bereft of motion, and 
 whose face and lips were ashen, exclaimed, -' I'm afraid 
 I haven't quite kept my promise to you, after all ! but 
 
410 
 
 things have turned out so differently ! anyhow, you 
 needn't have any fear of me now.'''' 
 
 At the mere sound of that voice, Mrs. Bagot, who 
 was as impulsive, emotional, and unregulated as her 
 
 40 Y^^ ^.^^'^ ^.■" f'^^'^t^ii 
 
 " ' OH, MY POOR GIRL ! MY POOR GIRL !' " 
 
 son, rushed forward, crying, " Oh, my poor girl, my 
 poor girl !" and caught her in her arms, and kissed 
 and caressed her, and burst into a flood of tears, and 
 forced her back into her chair, hugging her as if she 
 were a long-lost child. 
 
 " I love you now as much as I always admired you 
 — pray believe it !" 
 
411 
 
 " Oh, how kind of you to say that !" said Trilby, her 
 own eyes filling. "I'm not at all the dangerous or 
 designing person you thought. I knew quite well I 
 wasn't a jDroper person to marry your son all the time ; 
 and told him so again and again. It was very stupid 
 of me to say yes at last. I was miserable directly 
 after, I assure you. Somehow I couldn't help myself 
 — I was driven." 
 
 " Oh, don't talk of that ! don't talk of that ! You've 
 never been to blame in any way — I've long known 
 it — I've been full of remorse! You've been in my 
 thoughts alwaj's, night and day. Forgive a poor jeal- 
 ous mother. As if any man could help loving you — 
 or any woman either. Forgive me !" 
 
 "■ Oh, Mrs. Bagot — forgive you I What a funny 
 idea! But, anyhow, you'v^e forgiven me, and that's all 
 I care for now. I was very fond of your son — as fond 
 as could be. I am now, but in quite a different sort 
 of way, you know — the sort of way you must be, I 
 fancy ! There was never another like him that I ever 
 met — anywhere ! You must be so proud of him; who 
 wouldn't? Nobody's good enough for him. I would 
 have been only too glad to be his servant, his humble 
 servant ! I used to tell him so — but he wouldn't hear 
 of it — he was much too kind ! He always thought of 
 others before himself. And, oh ! how rich and famous 
 he's become! I've heard all about it, and it did me 
 good. It does me more good to think of than any- 
 thing else ; far more than if I were to be ever so rich 
 and famous myself, I can tell you !" 
 
 This from la Svengali, whose overpowering fame, so 
 utterly forgotten by herself, was still ringing all over 
 
413 
 
 Europe; whose lamentable illness and approaching 
 death were being mourned and discussed and com- 
 mented upon in every capital of the civilized world, as 
 one distressing bulletin appeared after another. She 
 might have been a roj^al personage ! 
 
 Mrs. Bagot knew, of course, the strange form her 
 insanity had taken, and made no allusion to the flood 
 of thoughts that rushed through lier own brain as she 
 listened to this towering goddess of song, this poor 
 mad queen of the nightingales, humbly gloating ov^er 
 her son's success. . . . 
 
 Poor Mrs. Bagot had just come from Little Billee's, 
 in Fitzroy Square, close by. There she had seen Taffy, 
 in a corner of Little Billee's studio, laboriously an- 
 swering endless letters and telegrams from all parts 
 of Europe — for the good Taffy had constituted him- 
 self Trilby's secretary and homme d'affaires — unknown 
 to her, of course. And this was no sinecure (though 
 he liked it) : putting aside the numerous people he 
 had to see and be interviewed hj^ there were kind 
 inquiries and messages of condolence and sympath}'- 
 from nearl}' all the crowned heads of Europe, through 
 their chamberlains; applications for help from unsuc- 
 cessful musical stragglers all over the world to the pre- 
 eminently successful one; beautiful letters from great 
 and famous people, musical or otherwise ; disinterested 
 offers of service ; interested proposals for engagements 
 when the present trouble should be over ; beggings for 
 an interview from famous impresarios, to obtain which 
 no distance would be thought too great, etc., etc., etc. 
 It was endless, in English, French, German, Italian— 
 in languages quite incomprehensible (many letters had 
 
413 
 
 to remain unanswered) — Taffy took an almost ma- 
 licious pleasure in explaining all this to Mrs. Bagot. 
 
 Then there Wi|S a constant rolling of carriages up 
 to the door, and a thundering of Little Billee's knocker: 
 Lord and Lady Palmerston wish to know — the Lord 
 Chief Justice wishes to know — the Dean of Westmin- 
 ster wishes to know — the Marchioness of Westminster 
 wishes to know — everybody wishes to know if there is 
 any better nevvs of Madame Svengali ! 
 
 These were small things, truly ; but Mrs. Bagot was 
 a small person from a small village in Devonshire, and 
 one whose heart and eye had hitherto been filled by 
 no larger image than that of Little Billee; and Little 
 Billee's fame, as she now discovered for the first time, 
 did not quite fill the entire universe. 
 
 And she mustn't be too much blamed if all these 
 obvious signs of a world-wide colossal celebrity im- 
 pressed and even awed her a little. 
 
 Madame Svengali ! Why, this was the beautiful 
 girl whom she remembered so well, whom she had so 
 grandly discarded with a word, and who had accepted 
 her conge so meekly in a minute ; whom, indeed, she 
 had been cursing in her heart for years, because — be- 
 cause what ? 
 
 Poor Mrs. Bagot felt herself turn hot and red all 
 over, and humbled herself to the very dust, and al- 
 most forgot that she had been in the right, after all, 
 and that " la grande Trilb}^ " was certainly no fit 
 match for her son ! 
 
 So she went quite humbly to see Trilby, and found 
 a poor, pathetic, mad creature still more humble than 
 herself, who still apologized for — for what ? 
 
414 
 
 A poor, pathetic, mad creature who had clean for- 
 gotten that she was the greatest singer in all the 
 world — one of the greatest artists that had ever lived ; 
 but who remembered with shame and contrition that 
 she had once taken the liberty of yielding (after end- 
 less pressure and repeated disinterested refusals of her 
 own, and out of sheer irresistible affection) to the pas- 
 sionate pleadings of a little obscure art student, a 
 mere boy — no better off than herself — just as penni- 
 less and insignificant a nobody ; but — the son of Mrs. 
 Bagot. 
 
 All due sense of proportion died out of the poor 
 lady as she remembered and realized all this ! 
 
 And then Trilby's pathetic beauty, so touching, so 
 winning, in its rapid decay; the nameless charm of 
 look and voice and manner that was her special apa- 
 nage, and which her malady and singular madness 
 had only increased; her childlike simplicity, her trans- 
 parent forgetfulness of self — all these so fascinated 
 and entranced Mrs. Bagot, whose quick susceptibility 
 to such impressions was just as keen as her son's, that 
 she very soon found herself all but worshipping this 
 fast-fading lily — for so she called her in her own 
 mind — quite forgetting (or affecting to forget) on 
 what very questionable soil the lily had been reared, 
 and through what strange vicissitudes of evil and cor- 
 ruption it had managed to grow so tall and white and 
 fragrant ! 
 
 Oh, strange compelling power of weakness and 
 grace and prettiness combined, and sweet, sincere un- 
 conscious natural manners! not to speak of world- 
 wide fame ! 
 
415 
 
 For Mrs. Bagot was just a shrewd little conven- 
 tional British country matron of the good upper 
 middle -class type, bristling all over with provincial 
 proprieties and respectabilities, a philistine of the 
 philistines, in spite of her artistic instincts ; one who 
 for years had (rather unjustly) thought of Trilby as a 
 wanton and perilous siren, an unchaste and unprinci- 
 pled and most dangerous daughter of Heth, and the 
 special enemy of her house. 
 
 And here she was — hke all the rest of us monads 
 and nomads and bohemians— just sitting at Trilby's 
 feet. ..." A washer- woman ! a figure model ! and 
 Heaven know^s what besides!" and she had never even 
 heard her sing ! 
 
 It was truly comical to see and hear ! 
 
 Mrs. Bagot did not go back to Devonshire. She re- 
 mained in Fitzroy Square, at her son's, and spent most 
 of her time with Trilby, doing and devising all kinds 
 of things to distract and amuse her, and lead her 
 thoughts gently to heaven, and soften for her the com- 
 ing end of all. 
 
 Trilby had a way of saying, and especially of look- 
 ing, " Thank you" that made one wish to do as many 
 things for her as one could, if only to make her say 
 and look it again. 
 
 And she had retained much of her old, quaint, and 
 amusing manner of telling things, and had much to 
 tell still left of her wandering life, although there 
 were so many strange lapses in her powers of mem- 
 ory — gaps — which, if they could only have been filled 
 up, would have been full of such surpassing interest I 
 
416 
 
 Then she was never tired of talking and hearing 
 of Little Billee ; and that was a subject of which Mrs. 
 Bagot could never tire either ! 
 
 Then there were the recollections of her childhood. 
 One day, in a drawer, Mrs. Bagot came upon a faded 
 daguerreotype of a woman in a Tam o' Shanter, with 
 a face so sweet and beautiful and saint -like that 
 
 it almost took her 
 breath away. It 
 was Trilby's mother. 
 " Who and what 
 was your mother, 
 Trilby ?" 
 
 "Ah, poor mam- 
 ma !" said Trilby, 
 and she looked at 
 the portrait a long 
 time. "Ah, she 
 was ever so much 
 prettier than that! 
 Mamma was once a 
 demoiselle de comp- 
 toir — that's a bar- 
 maid, you know — 
 at the Montagnards 
 Ecossais, in the Rue 
 du Paradis Poissonniere — a place where men used to 
 drink and smoke without sitting down. That was 
 unfortunate, wasn't it ? 
 
 "Papa loved her with ail his heart, although, of 
 course, she wasn't his equal. They were married at 
 the Embassy, in the Rue du Faubourg St. Honore. 
 
 " ' AH, POOR MAMMA ! SHE WAS EVER SO 
 MUCH PRETTIER THAN THAT !' " 
 
417 
 
 '■'■Her parents weren't married at all. Her mother 
 was the daughter of a boatman on Loch Ness, near a 
 place called Drumnadrockit ; but her father was the 
 Honorable Colonel Desmond. He was related to all 
 sorts of great people in England and Ireland. He 
 behaved very badly to my grandmother and to poor 
 mamma — his own daughter! deserted them both! 
 Not very honomhle of him, was it? And that's all 
 I know about him." 
 
 And then she went on to tell of the home in Paris 
 that might have been so happy but for her father's 
 passion for drink ; of her parents' deaths, and little 
 Jeannot, and so forth. And Mrs. Bagot was much 
 moved and interested by these naive revelations, 
 which accounted in a measure for so much that 
 seemed unaccountable in this extraordinary woman; 
 who thus turned out to be a kind of cousin (though 
 on the wrong side of the blanket) to no less a person 
 than the famous Duchess of Towers. 
 
 With what joy would that ever kind and gracious 
 lady have taken poor Trilby to her bosom had she 
 only known ! She had once been all the way from 
 Paris to Vienna merely to hear her sing. But, un- 
 fortunately, the Svengalis had just left for St. Peters- 
 burg, and she had her long journey for nothing ! 
 
 Mrs. Bagot brought her many good books, and read 
 them to her — Dr. Cummings on the approaching end 
 of the world, and other works of a like comforting 
 tendency for those who are just about to leave it ; 
 the Pilgrini's Progress, sweet little tracts, and what 
 not. 
 
 27 
 
418 
 
 Trilby was so grateful that she listened with much 
 patient attention. Only now and then a faint gleam 
 of amusement would steal over her face, and her lips 
 would almost form themselves to ejaculate, " Oh, maie, 
 aie !" 
 
 Then Mrs. Bagot, as a reward for such winning do- 
 cility, would read her David Copperfield, and that was 
 heavenly indeed ! 
 
 But the best of all was for Trilby to look over John 
 Leech's Pictures of Life and Character, just out. 
 She had never seen any drawings of Leech before, 
 except now and then in an occasional Punch that 
 turned up in the studio in Paris. And they never 
 palled upon her, and taught her more of the aspect of 
 English life (the life she loved) than any book she had 
 ever read. She laughed and laughed ; and it was al- 
 most as sweet to listen to as if she were vocalizing the 
 quick part in Chopin's Impromptu. 
 
 One day she said, her lips trembling : " I can't make 
 out why you're so wonderfully kind to me, Mrs. Ba- 
 got. I hope you have not forgotten who and what 
 I am, and what my story is. I hope you haven't for- 
 gotten that I'm not a respectable woman?" 
 
 " Oh, my dear child — don't ask me ... I only knoAV 
 that you are you ! . . . and I am I ! and that is enough 
 for me . . . you're my poor, gentle, patient, suffering 
 daughter, whatever else you are— more sinned against 
 than sinning, I feel sure ! But there . . . I've mis- 
 judged you so, and been so unjust, that I would give 
 worlds to make you some amends . . . besides, I should 
 be just as fond of you if 3 ou'd committed a murder, I 
 
419 
 
 really believe — you're so strange ! you're irresistible ! 
 Did you ever, in all your life, meet anybody that 
 wasnH fond of you ?" 
 
 Trilby's eyes moistened with tender pleasure at 
 such a pretty compliment. Then, after a few min- 
 utes' thought, she said, with engaging candor and 
 quite simply : "• No, I can't say I ever did, that I 
 can think of just now. But I've forgotten such lots 
 of people !" 
 
 One day Mrs. Bagot told Trilby that her brother- 
 in-law, Mr. Thomas Bagot, would much like to come 
 and talk to her. 
 
 " Was that the gentleman who came with you to 
 the studio in Paris V 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Why, he's a clergyman, isn't he ? What does he 
 want to come and talk to me about ?" 
 
 " Ah ! my dear child . . ." said Mrs. Bagot, her eyes 
 filling. 
 
 Trilby was thoughtful for a while, and then said : 
 " I'm going to die, I suppose. Oh yes ! oh yes ! 
 There's no mistake about that !" 
 
 " Dear Trilby, we are all in the hands of an Al- 
 mighty Merciful God !" And the tears rolled down 
 Mrs. Bagot's cheeks. 
 
 After a long pause, during which she gazed out of 
 the window, Trilby said, in an abstracted kind of way, 
 as though she were talking to herself: " Apr^s tout, 
 c'est pas deja si raide, de claquer ! J'en ai tant vus, 
 qui ont passe par la ! Au bout du fosse la culbute, 
 ma foi !" 
 
430 
 
 " What are you saying to yourself in French, Tril- 
 by ? Your French is so difficult to understand !" 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon! I was thinking it's not 
 so difficult to die, after all ! I've seen such lots of peo- 
 ple do it. I've nursed them, you know — papa and 
 mamma and Jeannot, and Angcle Boisse's mother- 
 in-law, and a poor casseur de pierres, Colin Maigret, 
 who lived in the Impasse des Taupes St. Germain. 
 He'd been run over by an omnibus in the Rue Yau- 
 girard, and had to have both his legs cut off just 
 above the knee. They none of them seemed to 
 mind dying a bit. They weren't a bit afraid! /'m 
 not! 
 
 " Poor people don't think much of death. Rich 
 people shouldn't either. They should be taught when 
 they're quite young to laugh at it and despise it, like 
 the Chinese. The Chinese die of laughing just as 
 their heads are being cut off, and cheat the execution- 
 er ! It's all in the day's work, and we're all in the 
 same boat — so who's afraid !" 
 
 " Dying is not all, my poor child ! Are you pre- 
 pared to meet your Maker face to face ? Have you 
 ever thought about God, and the possible wrath to 
 come if you should die unrepentant?" 
 
 " Oh, but I sha'n't ! I've been repenting all my 
 life ! Besides, there'll be no wrath for any of us — not 
 even the worst ! II y aura amnistle generale ! Papa 
 told me so, and he'd been a clergyman, like Mr. 
 Thomas Bagot. I often think about God. I'm very 
 fond of Him. One mu8t have something perfect 
 to look up to and be fond of — even if it's only an 
 idea ! 
 
421 
 
 " Though some people don't even beheve He exists ! 
 Le pere Martin didn't — but, of course, he was only a 
 chiffonnier, and doesn't count. 
 
 " One day, though, Durien, the sculptor, who's very 
 clever, and a very good fellow indeed, said : 
 
 " ' Yois - tu, Trilby — I'm very much afraid He 
 doesn't really exist, le bon Dieu ! most unfortunately 
 for me^ for I adore Him ! I never do a piece of work 
 without thinking how nice it would be if I could only 
 please Ilhn with it !' 
 
 " And I've often thought, myself, how heavenly it 
 must be to be able to paint, or sculpt, or make music, 
 or write beautiful poetry, for that very reason ! 
 
 " Why, once on a very hot afternoon we were sit- 
 ting, a lot of us, in the court -yard outside la mure 
 Martin's shop, drinking coffee with an old Invalide 
 called Bastide Lendormi, one of the Vieille Garde, 
 who'd only got one leg and one arm and one eye, and 
 everybody was very fond of him. Well, a model 
 called Mimi la Salope came out of the Mont-de-pieto 
 opposite, and Pere Martin called out to her to come 
 and sit down, and gave her a cup of coffee, and asked 
 her to sing. 
 
 " She sang a song of Beranger's, about Napoleon 
 the Great, in which it says : 
 
 " ' Piirlez-nous de lui, grandmere ! 
 Graudinere, parlez nous de lui !' 
 
 I suppose she sang it very well, for it made old Bas- 
 tide Lendormi cry ; and when Pere Martin Uague'd 
 him about it, he said, 
 
TO SING LIKE THAT IS TO PRAY 
 
 " ' C'est egal, voyez - vous ! to sing like that is to 
 pray P 
 
 "And then I thought how lovely it would be if / 
 could only sing like Mimi la Salope, and I've thought 
 so ever since — just to pray P'' 
 
 " What ! Trilby ? if you could only sing like — Oh, 
 but never mind, I forgot ! Tell me, Trilby — do you 
 ever pray to Him, as other people pray ?" 
 
 " Pray to Him ? Well, no — not often — not in words 
 and on my knees and with my hands together, you 
 know! 7%m^?'w^\<? praying, very often — don't 3^ou 
 think so? And so's being sorry and ashamed Avhen 
 one's done a mean thing:, and g-lad when one's resisted 
 a temptation, and grateful when it's a fine day and 
 
4.-S6 
 
 one's enjoying one's self without hurting any one else ! 
 What is it but praying when you try and bear up 
 after losing all you cared to live for ? And very good 
 praying too ! There can be prayers without words 
 just as well as songs, 1 suppose ; and Svengali used to 
 say that songs without words are the best ! 
 
 " And then it seems mean to be always asking for 
 things. Besides, you don't get them any the faster 
 that way, and that shows ! 
 
 " La mere Martin used to be always praying. And 
 Pere Martin used always to laugh at her; yet he al- 
 w^ays seemed to get the things he wanted oftenest ! 
 
 "/ prayed once, very hard indeed ! I prayed for 
 Jeannot not to die !" 
 
 "Well — but how do you repent, Trilby, if you do 
 not humble yourself, and pray for forgiveness on your 
 knees ?" 
 
 " Oh, well — I don't exactly know ! Look here, Mrs. 
 Bagot, I'll tell you the lowest and meanest thing 1 
 ever did. . . ." 
 
 (Mrs. Bagot felt a little nervous.) 
 
 " I'd promised to take Jeannot on Palm-Sunday to 
 St. Philippe du Koule, to hear I'abbe Bergamot. But 
 Durien (that's the sculptor, you know) asked me to 
 go with him to St. Germain, where there was a fair, 
 or something ; and with Mathieu, who was a student 
 in law ; and a certain Victorine Letellier, who — who 
 was Mathieu's mistress, in fact. And I went on Sun- 
 day morning to tell Jeannot that I couldn't take him. 
 
 " He criedi so dreadfully that I thought I'd give up 
 the others and take him to St. Philippe, as I'd prom- 
 ised. But then Durien and Mathieu and Yictorine 
 
424 
 
 drove up and waited outside, and so I didn't take him, 
 and went with them, and I didn't enjoy anything all 
 day, and Avas miserable. 
 
 "They were in an open carriage with two horses; 
 it was Mathieu's treat ; and Jeannot might have ridden 
 on the box by the coachman, without being in any- 
 body's way. But I was afraid they didn't want him, 
 as they didn't say anything, and so I didn't dare ask — 
 and Jeannot saw us drive away, and I couldtiH look 
 back ! And the worst of it is that when we were 
 half-way to St. Germain, Durien said, ' What a pity 
 you didn't bring Jeannot !' and they were all sorry 1 
 hadn't. 
 
 " It was six or seven years ago, and I really believe 
 I've thought of it almost every day, and sometimes in 
 the middle of the night ! 
 
 "Ah ! and when Jeannot was dying! and when he 
 was dead — the remembrance of that Palm-Sunday ! 
 
 "And if thafs not repenting, I don't know what is!" 
 
 "Oh, Trilby, what nonsense! that''s nothing; good 
 heavens ! — putting off a small child ! I'm thinking of 
 far worse things — when you were in the quartier latin, 
 you know — sitting to painters and sculptors. . . . Sure- 
 ly, so attractive as you are " 
 
 " Oh yes. ... I know what you mean — it was hor- 
 rid, and I was frightfully ashamed of myself ; and it 
 wasn't amusing a bit; nothing was, till I met your 
 son and Taffy and dear Sandy McAlister ! But then 
 it wasn't deceiving or disappointing anybody, or hurt- 
 ing their feelings — it was only hurting myself ! 
 
 " Besides, all that sort of thing, in women, is pun- 
 ished severely enough down here, God knows ! unless 
 
" ' THE UEMKMBRANCE Of THAT PALM-SUNDAY !' 
 
 one's a Russian empress like Catherine the Great, or a 
 grande dame hke lots of them, or a great genius like 
 Madame Tlachel or George Sand ! 
 
 " Why, if it hadn't been for that, and sitting for the 
 figure, I should have felt myself good enough to mar- 
 ry your son, although I was only a blanchisseuse de 
 fin — you've said so yourself ! 
 
 " And I should have made -him a good wife — of that 
 I feel sure. He wanted to live all his life at Barbizon, 
 and paint, you know ; and didn't care for society in the 
 least. Anyhow, I should have been equal to such a 
 
426 
 
 life as that ! Lots of their wives are blanchisseuses 
 over there, or people of that sort ; and they get on 
 very well indeed, and nobody troubles about it ! 
 
 " So I think I've been pretty well punished — richly 
 as I've deserved to !" 
 
 " Trilby, have you ever been confirmed ?" 
 
 " I forget. I fancy not !" 
 
 " Oh dear, oh dear ! And do you know about our 
 blessed Saviour, and the Atonement and the Incarna- 
 tion and the Resurrection. . ." 
 
 "Oh yes — I used to, at least. I used to have to 
 learn the Catechism on Sundays — mamma made me. 
 Whatever her faults and mistakes were, poor mamma 
 was always ver}'^ particular about that ! It all seemed 
 very complicated. But papa told me not to bother 
 too much about it, but to be good. He said that God 
 would make it all right for us somehow, in the end — 
 all of us. And that seems sensible, doesnH it ? 
 
 "He told me to be good, and not to mind what 
 priests and clergymen tell us. He'd been a clergy- 
 man himself, and knew all about it, he said, 
 
 " I haven't been very good — there's not much doubt 
 about that, I'm afraid. But God knows I've repented 
 often enough and sore enough ; I do now ! But I'm 
 rather glad to die, I think ; and not a bit afraid — not a 
 scrap ! I believe in poor papa, though he was so un- 
 fortunate ! He was the cleverest man I ever knew, 
 and the best — except Taffy and the Laird and your 
 dear son ! 
 
 " There'll be no hell for any of us — he told me so — 
 except what we make for ourselves and each other 
 down here ; and that's bad enough for anything. He 
 
told me that he was responsible for me — he often said 
 so — and that mamma was too, and his parents for 
 him, and his grandfathers and grandmothers for them, 
 and so on up to Noah and ever so far beyond, and 
 God for us all ! 
 
 " He told me always to think of other people before 
 myself, as Taffy does, and ^^our son ; and never to tell 
 lies or be afraid, and keep away from drink, and I 
 should be all right. But I've sometimes been all 
 wrong, all the same ; and it wasn't papa's fault, but 
 poor mamma's and mine; and I've known it, and 
 been miserable at the time, and after! and I'm sure 
 to be forgiven — perfectly certain— and so will every- 
 body else, even the wickedest that ever lived ! Why, 
 just give them sense enough in the next world to 
 understand all their wickedness in this, and that'll 
 punish them enough for anything, I think! That's 
 simple enough, isiiH it ? Besides, there may be no next 
 world — that's on the cards too, you know ! — and that 
 will be simpler still ! 
 
 "Not all the clergymen in all the world, not even 
 the Pope of Rome, will ever make me doubt papa, or 
 believe in any punishment after what we've all got to 
 go through here ! Ce serait trop htte ! 
 
 "So that if you don't want me to very much, and 
 he won't think it unkind, I'd rather not talk to Mr. 
 Thomas Bagot about it. I'd rather talk to Taffy if 
 I must. He's .verx" clever, Taffy, though he doesn't 
 often say such clever things as your son does, or paint 
 nearly so well ; and I'm sure he'll think papa was 
 right." 
 
 And as a matter of fact the good Taffy, in his opin- 
 
428 
 
 ion on this solemn subject, was found to be at one 
 with the late Eeverend Patrick Michael O'Ferrall — 
 and so was the Laird — and so (to his mother's shocked 
 and pained surprise) was Little Billee. 
 
 And so were Sir Oliver Calthorpe and Sir Jacob 
 Wilcox and Doctor Thorne and Anton}^ and Lorrimer 
 and the Greek ! 
 
 And so — in after-years, when grief had well pierced 
 and torn and riddled her through and through, and 
 time and age had healed the wounds, and nothing re- 
 mained but the consciousness of great inward scars of 
 recollection to remind her how deep and jagged and 
 wide the wounds had once been — did Mrs. Bagot her- 
 self! 
 
 Late on one memorable Saturday afternoon, just as 
 it was getting dusk in Charlotte Street, Trilby, in her 
 pretty blue dressing-gown, lay on the sofa by the fire 
 — her head well prop])ed, her knees drawn up— look- 
 ing very placid and content. 
 
 She had spent the early part of the day dictating 
 her will to the conscientious Taff3^ 
 
 It was a simple document, although she was not 
 without many valuable trinkets to leave: quite a fort- 
 une! Souvenirs from many men and women she had 
 charmed b}^ her singing, from royalties downward. 
 
 She had been looking them over with the faithful 
 Marta, to whom she had alwaj^s thought they be- 
 longed. It was explained to her that they were gifts 
 of Svengali's; since she did not remember when and 
 where and by whom they were presented to her, ex- 
 cept a few that Svengali had given her himself, with 
 
439 
 
 many passionate expressions of his love, which seems 
 to have been deep and constant and sincere ; none the 
 less so, perhaps, that she could never return it ! 
 
 She had left the bulk of these to the faithful Marta. 
 
 But to each of the trois Angliches she had be- 
 queathed a beautiful ring, which was to be worn by 
 their brides if they ever married, and the brides didn't 
 object. 
 
 To Mrs. Bagot she left a pearl necklace; to Miss 
 Bagot her gold coronet of stars; and pretty (and most 
 costl}^) gifts to each of the three doctors who had at- 
 tended her and been so assiduous in their care ; and 
 who, as she was told, would make no charge for at- 
 tending on Madame Svengali. And studs and scarf- 
 pins to Antony, Lorrimer, the Greek, Dodor, and Zou- 
 zou ; and to Carnegie a little German-silver vinaigrette 
 which had once belongefl to Lord Witlow ; and pretty 
 souvenirs to the Vinards, Angele Boisse, Durien, and 
 others. 
 
 And she left a magnificent gold watch and chain to 
 Gecko, with a most affectionate letter and a hundred 
 pounds — which was all she had in money of her own. 
 
 She had taken great interest in discussing with 
 Taffy the particular kind of trinket which would best 
 suit the idiosyncrasy of each particular legatee, and 
 derived great comfort from the business-like and sym- 
 pathetic conscientiousness with which the good Taffy 
 entered upon all these minutiaB — he was so solemn 
 and serious about it, and took such pains. She little 
 guessed how his dumb but deeply feeling heart was 
 harrowed ! 
 
 This document had been duly signed and witnessed 
 
430 
 
 and intrusted to his care ; and Trilby lay tranquil and 
 happy, and with a sense that nothing remained for her 
 but to enjoy the fleeting hour, and make the most of 
 each precious moment as it went by. 
 
 She was quite without pain of either mind or body, 
 and surrounded by the people she adored — Taffy, the 
 Laird, and Little Billee, and Mrs. Bagot, and Marta, 
 who sat knitting in a corner with her black mittens 
 on, and her brass spectacles. 
 
 She listeiied to the chat and joined in it, laughing 
 as usual ; " love in her eyes sat playing," as she looked 
 from one to another, for she loved them all beyond 
 expression. "Love on her lips was straying, and 
 warbling in her breath," whenever she spoke; and 
 her weakened voice was still larger, fuller, softer than 
 any other voice in the room, in the world — of another 
 kind, from another sphere. 
 
 A cart drove up, there Avas a ring at the door, and 
 presently a wooden packing-case was brought into the 
 room. 
 
 At Trilby's request it was opened, and found to con- 
 tain a large photograph, framed and glazed, of Sven- 
 gali, in the militar}'^ uniform of his own Hungarian 
 band, and looking straight out of the picture, straight 
 at you. He was standing by his desk with his left 
 hand turning over a leaf of music, and waving his 
 baton with his right. It was a splendid photograph, 
 by a Viennese photographer, and a most speaking 
 likeness ; and Svengali looked truly fine — all made up 
 of importance and authority, and his big black eyes 
 were full of stern command. 
 
 Marta trembled as she looked. It was handed to 
 
433 
 
 Trilby, who exclaimed in surprise. She had never 
 seen it. She had no photograph of him, and had 
 never possessed one. 
 
 No message of any kind, no letter of explanation, 
 accompanied this unexpected present, which, from the 
 postmarks on the case, seemed to have travelled all 
 
 over Europe to London, 
 out of some remote prov- 
 ince in eastern Russia — 
 out of the mysterious East ! 
 The poisonous East — birth- 
 place and home of an ill 
 wind that blows nobody 
 good. 
 
 Trilby laid it against her 
 legs as on a lectern, and 
 lay gazing at it with close 
 attention for a long time, 
 making a casual remark 
 now and then, as, " lie was 
 very handsome, I think " ; 
 or, "That uniform be- 
 comes him very well. 
 Why has he got it on, I 
 wonder ?" 
 
 The others went on talk- 
 "ouT OF THE MYSTERIOUS EAST " ing, aud Mrs. Bugot made 
 
 coffee. 
 Presently Mrs. Bagot took a cup of coffee to Trilby, 
 and found her still staring intently at the portrait, but 
 with her eyes dilated, and quite a strange light in 
 them. 
 
433 
 
 " Trilby, Trilby, your coffee ! What is the matter, 
 Trilby ?" 
 
 Trilby was smiling, with fixed eyes, and made no 
 answer. 
 
 The others got up and gathered round her in some 
 alarm. Marta seemed terror-stricken, and wished to 
 snatch the photograph away, but was prevented from 
 doing so; one didn't know what the consequences 
 might be. 
 
 Taffy rang the bell, and sent a servant for Dr. 
 Thorne, who lived close by, in Fitzroy Square, 
 
 Presently Trilby began to speak, quite soft]}^ in 
 French: "Encore une fois? bon ! je veux bien! avec 
 la voix blanche alors, n'est-ce pas? et puis f oncer au 
 milieu. Et pas trop vite en comraen^ant ! Battez bien 
 la mesure, Svengali — que je puisse bien voir — car il fait 
 deja nuit ! c'est 9a ! Allons, Gecko^donne-moi le ton !" 
 
 Then she smiled, and seemed to beat time softly b}'- 
 moving her head a little from side to side, her eyes 
 intent on Svengali's in the portrait, and suddenly she 
 began to sing Chopin's Impromptu in A flat. 
 
 She hardly seemed to breathe as the notes came 
 pouring out, without words — mere vocalizing. It was 
 as if breath were unnecessary for so little voice as she 
 was using, though there was enough of it to fill the 
 room — to fill the house — to drown her small audience 
 in hol}^, heavenly sweetness. 
 
 She was a consummate mistress of her art. How 
 that could be seen ! And also how splendid had been 
 her training ! It all seemed as easy to her as opening 
 and shutting her eyes, and yet how utterly impossible 
 to an v body els© ! 
 
 28 
 
434 
 
 Between wonder, enchantment, and alarm they were 
 frozen to statues — all except Marta, who ran out of 
 the room, crying : " Gott im Himmel ! wieder zuriick ! 
 wieder zuriick !" 
 
 She sang it just as she had sung it at the Salle des 
 Bashibazoucks, only it sounded still more ineffably 
 seductive, as she was using less voice — using the es- 
 sence of her voice, in fact — the pure spirit, the A^ery 
 cream of it. 
 
 There can be little doubt that these four watchers 
 by that enchanted couch were listening to not only 
 the most divinely beautiful, but also the most astound- 
 ing: feat of musical utterance ever heard out of a 
 human throat. 
 
 The usual effect was produced. Tears were streara- 
 inff down the cheeks of Mrs. Bagot and Little Billee. 
 Tears were in the Laird's eyes, a tear on one of Taf- 
 fy's whiskers — tears of sheer delight. 
 
 When she came back to the quick movement again, 
 after the adagio, her voice grew louder and shriller, 
 and sweet with a sweetness not of this earth; and 
 went on increasing in volume as she quickened the 
 time, nearing the end; and then came the dying away 
 into all but nothing — a mere melodic breath; and 
 then the little soft chromatic ascending rocket, up to 
 E in alt, the last parting caress (which Svengali had 
 introduced as a finale, for it does not exist in the 
 piano score). 
 
 When it was over, she said : " Qa 5'^ est-il, cette fois, 
 Svengali ? Ah ! tant mieiix, a, la fin ! c'est pas mal- 
 heureux ! Et maintenant, mon ixim,Je suis fatiguee — 
 hon soir /" , 
 
435 
 
 Her liead fell back on the pillow, and she lay fast 
 asleep. 
 
 Mrs. Bagot took the portrait away gently. Little 
 Billee knelt down and held Trilby's hand in his and 
 felt for her pulse, and could not find it. 
 
 He said, " Trilby ! Trilby !" and put his ear to her 
 mouth to hear her breathe. Her breath was inaudi- 
 ble. 
 
 But soon she folded her hands across her breast, 
 and uttered a little short sigh, and in a weak voice 
 said : " Sven.gaU. . . . Svengali. . . . Svengali ! . . ," 
 
 They remained in silence round her for several min- 
 utes, terror-stricken. 
 
 The doctor came ; he put his hand to her heart, his 
 ear to her lips. He turned up one of her eyelids and 
 looked at her eye. And then, his voice quivering with 
 strong emotion, he stood up and said, " Madame Sven- 
 gali's trials and sufferings are all over !" 
 
 " Oh, good God ! is she dead f cried Mrs. Bagot. 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Bagot. She has been dead several min- 
 utes — perhaps a quarter of an hour." 
 
 VINGT ANS APRfiS 
 
 PoRTHos - Athos, alias Taffy Wynne, is sitting to 
 breakfast (opposite his wife) at a little table in the 
 court-yard of that huge caravanserai on the Boulevard 
 des CapucineSj Paris, where he had sat more than 
 twenty years ago with the Laird and Little Billee; 
 where, in fact, he had pulled Svengali's nose. 
 
 Little is changed in the aspect of the place: the 
 
436 
 
 same cosmopolite company, with more of the Ameri- 
 can' element, perhaps; the same arrivals and depart- 
 ures in railway omnibuses, cabs, hired carriages ; and, 
 airing his calves on the marble steps, stood just such 
 another colossal and beautiful old man in black cloth 
 coat and knee-breeches and silk stockings as of yore, 
 with probably the very same pinchbeck chain. Where 
 do they breed these magnificent old Frenchmen ? In 
 Germany, perhaps, " where all the good big waiters 
 come from !" 
 
 And also the same fine weather. It is always fine 
 weather in the court-yard of the Grand Hotel. As 
 the Laird Avould say, they manage these things better 
 there ! 
 
 Taffy wears a short beard, which is turning gray. 
 His kind blue eye is no longer choleric, but mild and 
 friendly — as frank as ever ; and full of humorous pa- 
 tience. He has grown stouter ; he is very big indeed, 
 in all three dimensions, but the symmetry and the 
 gainliness of the athlete belong to him still in move- 
 ment and repose ; and his clothes fit him beautifully, 
 though they are not new, and show careful beating 
 and brushing and ironing, and even a faint suspicion 
 of all but imperceptible fine-drawing here and there. 
 
 What a magnificent old man lie will make some day, 
 should the Grand Hotel ever run short of them! He 
 looks as if he could be trusted down to the ground — 
 in all things, little or big ; as if his word were as good 
 as his bond, and even better ; his wink as good as his 
 word, his nod as good as his wink ; and, in truth, as he 
 looks, so he is. 
 
 The most cynical disbeliever in " the grand old name 
 
438 
 
 of gentleman," and its virtues as a noun of definition, 
 would almost be justified in quite dogmatically assert- 
 ing at sight, and without even being introduced, that, 
 at all events, Taffy is a " gentleman," inside and out, 
 up and down — from the crown of his head (which is get- 
 ting rather bald) to the sole of his foot (by no means 
 a small one, or a lightly shod — ex ])ede lierculcm) ! 
 
 Indeed, this is always the first thing people say of 
 Taffy — and the last. It means, perhaps, that he may 
 be a trifle dull. Well, one can't be everything! 
 
 Porthos was a trifle didl — and so was Athos, I think ; 
 and likewise his son, the faithful Viscount of Brage- 
 lonne — hon chien chasse de race ! And so was Wilfred 
 of Ivanhoe, the disinherited; and Edgar, the Lord of 
 Kavenswood ! and so, for that matter, was Colonel 
 Newcome, of immortal memory ! 
 
 Yet who does not love them — who would not wish 
 to be like them, for better, for worse ! 
 
 Taffy's wife is unlike Taffy in many ways; but 
 (fortunately for both) very like him in some. She is a 
 little woman, very well shaped, very dark, with black, 
 wavy hair, and very small hands and feet ; a very 
 graceful, handsome, and vivacious person ; by no 
 means dull ; full, indeed, of quick perceptions and in- 
 tuitions ; deeply interested in all that is going on about 
 and around her, and with always lots to say about it, 
 but not too much. 
 
 She distinctly belongs to the rare, and ever-blessed, 
 and most precious race of charmers. 
 
 She had fallen in love with the stalwart Taffy more 
 than a quarter of a century ago in the Place St. Ana- 
 tole des Arts, where he and she and her mother had 
 
"tout vient a point, pour qui sait attendre!" 
 
 tended the sick -couch of Little Billee — but she had 
 never told her love. Tout vient d point, pour qui sait 
 attendre ! 
 
 That is a capital proverb, and sometimes even a true 
 one. Blanche Bagot had found it to be both ! 
 
 One terrible night, never to be forgotten, Taffy lay- 
 fast asleep in bed, at his rooms in Jermyn Street, for 
 he was very tired ; grief tires more than anything, and 
 brings a deeper slumber. 
 
440 
 
 That day he had followed Trilby to her last home in 
 Kensal Green, with Little Billee, Mrs. Bagot, the Laird, 
 Antony, the Greek, and Durien (who had come over 
 from, Paris on purpose) as chief mourners; and very 
 many other people, noble, famous, or otherwise, English 
 and foreign ; a splendid and most representative gather- 
 ing, as was duly chronicled in all the newspapers here 
 and abroad ; a fitting ceremony to close the brief but 
 splendid career of the greatest pleasure - giver of our 
 time. 
 
 He was awakened by a tremendous ringing at the 
 street-door bell, as if the house were on fire ; and then 
 there was a hurried scrambling up in the dark, a tum- 
 bling over stairs and kicking against banisters, and 
 Little Billee had burst into his room, calling out : " Oh ! 
 Taffy, Taffy ! I'm g-going mad — I'm g-going m-mad ! 
 I'm d-d-done for . . ." 
 
 " All right, old fellow — just wait till I strike a light !" 
 
 " Oh, Taffy ! I haven't slept for four nights — not a 
 wink! She d-d-died with Sv — Sv — Sv . . . damn it, I 
 can't get it out ! that ruffian's name on her lips ! ... it 
 was just as if he were calling her from the t-t-tomb ! 
 She recovered her senses the very minute she saw his 
 photograph — she was so f-fond of him she f-forgot 
 everybody else ! She's gone straight to him, after all 
 — in some other life! . . . to slave for him, and sing for 
 him, and help him to make better music than ever ! 
 Oh, T— T— oh— oh ! Taffy— oh ! oh! oh! catch hold! 
 c-c-catch ..." And Little Billee had all but fallen on 
 the floor in a fit. 
 
 And all the old miserable business of five years be- 
 fore had begun over again ! 
 
441 
 
 There has been too much sickness in this story, so I 
 will tell as little as possible of poor Little Billee's long 
 illness, his slow and only partial recovery, the paraly- 
 sis of his powers as a painter, his quick decline, his 
 early death, his manly, calm, and most beautiful sur- 
 render — the wedding of the moth with the star, of 
 the night with the 
 morrow ! 
 
 For all but blame- 
 less as his short life 
 had been, and so full 
 of splendid promise 
 
 "l, PKTE COEI.KSTES. 
 
443 
 
 and performance, nothing ever became him better 
 than the way he left it. It was as if he were starting 
 on some distant holy quest, like some gallant knight 
 of old — " A Bagot to the Rescue !" It shook the in- 
 fallibility of a certain vicar down to its very founda- 
 tions, and made him think more deeply about things 
 than he had ever thought yet. It gave him pause! 
 . . . and so wrung his heart that when, at the last, he 
 stooped to kiss his poor young dead friend's pure 
 white forehead, he dropped a bigger tear on it than 
 Little Billee (once so given to the dropping of big 
 tears) had ever dropped in his life. 
 
 But it is all too sad to write about. 
 
 It was by Little Billee's bedside, in Devonshire, that 
 Taffy had grown to love Blanche Bagot, and not very 
 many weeks after it was all over that Taffy had asked 
 her to be his wife ; and in a year they were married, 
 and a very happy marriage it turned out — the one 
 thing that poor Mrs. Bagot still looks upon as a com- 
 pensation for all the griefs and troubles of her life. 
 
 During the first year or two Blanche had perhaps 
 been the most ardently loving of this well - assorted 
 pair. That beautiful look of love surprised (which 
 makes all women's eyes look the same) came into hers 
 whenever she looked at Taffy, and filled his heart with 
 tender compunction, and a queer sense of his own un- 
 worthiness. 
 
 Then a boy was born to them, and that look fell on 
 the boy, and the good Taffy caught it as it passed him 
 by, and he felt a helpless, absurd jealousy, that was none 
 the less painful for being so ridiculous ! i\nd then that 
 look fell on another boy and yet another, so that it 
 
443 
 
 was tlirougli these boys that she looked at their father. 
 Theu his eyes caught the look, and kept it for their 
 own use ; and he grew never to look at his wife with- 
 out it ; and as no daughter came, she retained for life 
 the monopoly of that most sweet and expressive regard. 
 
 They are not very rich. He is a far better sports- 
 man than he will ever be a painter ; and if he doesn't 
 sell his pictures, it is not because they are too good 
 for the public taste : indeed, he has no illusions on 
 that score himself, even if his wife has I He is quite 
 the least conceited art-duffer I ever met — and I have 
 met many far worse duffers than Taffy. 
 
 Would only that I might kill off his cousin Sir 
 Oscar, and Sir Oscar's five sons (the Wynnes are good 
 at sons), and his seventeen grandsons, and the four- 
 teen cousins (and their numerous male progeny), that 
 stand between Taffy and the baronetcy, and whatever 
 property goes with it, so that he might be Sir Taffy, 
 and dear Blanche Bagot (that was) might be called 
 " my lady " ! This Shakespearian holocaust would 
 scarcely cost me a pang! 
 
 It is a great temptation, when j^ou have duly slain 
 your first hero, to enrich hero number two beyond the 
 dreams of avarice, and provide him with a title and a 
 castle and park, as well as a handsome wife and a nice 
 family ! But truth is inexorable — and, besides, they 
 are just as happy as they are. 
 
 They are well off enough, anyhow, to spend a week 
 in Paris at last, and even to stop at the Grand Hotel ! 
 now that tw^o of their sons are at Harrow (where their 
 father was before them), and the third is safe at a 
 preparatory school at Elstree, Herts. 
 
444 
 
 It is their first outing since the honeymoon, and 
 the Laird should have come with them. 
 
 But the good Laird of Cockpen (who is now a 
 famous Royal Academician) is preparing for a lioney- 
 raoon of his own. He has gone to Scotland to be 
 married himself — to wed a fair and clever country- 
 woman of just a suitable age, for he has known her 
 ever since she was a bright little lassie in short frocks, 
 and he a promising A.R.A. (the pride of his native 
 Dundee) — a marriage of reason, and well-seasoned af- 
 fection, and mutual esteem — and therefore sure to 
 turn out a happy one ! and in another fortnight or so 
 the pair of them will very possibly be sitting to break- 
 fast opposite each other at that very corner table in 
 the court-yart^ of the Grand Hotel! and she will laugh 
 at everything he says — and they will live happily ever 
 after. 
 
 So much for hero number three — D' Artagnan ! 
 Here's to you, Sandy McAlister, canniest, genialest, 
 and most humorous of Scots ! most delicate, and 
 dainty, and fanciful of British painters ! " I trink 
 your health, mit your family's — may you lif long — 
 and brosper !" 
 
 So Taffy and his wife have come for their second 
 honeymoon, their Indian -summer honeymoon, alone; 
 and are well content that it should be so. Two's 
 always company for such a pair — the amusing one 
 and the amusable ! — and they are making the most 
 of it ! 
 
 They have been all over the quartier latin, and re- 
 visited the well - remembered spots ; and even been al- 
 
445 
 
 lowed to enter the old studio, through the kindness of 
 the concierge (who is no longer Madame Yinard). It 
 is tenanted by two American painters, who are coldly 
 civil on being thus disturbed in the middle of their 
 work. 
 
 The studio is very spick and span, and most re- 
 spectable. Trilby's foot, and the poem, and the sheet 
 of plate-glass have been improved away, and a book- 
 shelf put in their place. The new concierge (who 
 has only been there a year) knows nothing of Trilby, 
 and of the Vinards, only that they are rich and pros- 
 perous, and live somewhere in the south of France, 
 and that Monsieur Vinard is mayor of his commune. 
 Que le hcin Diou les henisse ! cctaient de Men hraves 
 gens. 
 
 Then Mr. and Mrs. Taffy have also been driven (in 
 an open caleche with two horses) through the Bois de 
 Boulogne to St. Cloud ; and to Versailles, where they 
 lunched at the Hotel des Reservoirs — parlez-moi de 
 ga ! and to St. Germain, and to Meudon (where they 
 lunched at la loge du garde champetre — a new one) ; 
 they have visited the Salon, the Louvre, the porcelain 
 manufactory at Sevres, the Gobelins, the Hotel Cluny, 
 the Invalides, with Napoleon's tomb, and seen half a 
 dozen churches, including Notre Dame and the Sainte 
 Chapelle ; and dined with the Dodors at their charm- 
 ing villa near Asnieres, and with the Zouzous at the 
 splendid Hotel de la Rochemartel, and with the Du- 
 riens in the Pare Monceau (Dodor's food was best and 
 Zouzou's worst ; and at Durien's the company and 
 talk were so good that one forgot to notice the food — 
 and that was a pity). And the young Dodors are all 
 
446 
 
 « 
 
 right — and so are the young Duriens. As for the 
 young Zouzous, there aren't any — and that's a re- 
 lief. 
 
 And they've been to the Yarietes and seen Ma- 
 dame Chaumont, and to the Fran9ais and seen Sarah 
 Bernhardt and Coquelin and Delaunay, and to the 
 Opera and heard Monsieur Lassalle. 
 
 And to-day being their last day, they are going to 
 laze and flane about the boulevards, aaid buy things, 
 and lunch anywhere, " sur le pouce," and do the Bois 
 once more and see tout Paris, and dine early at Du- 
 rand's, or Bignon's (or else the Cafe des Ambassa- 
 deurs), and finish up the well - spent day at the 
 " Mouches d'Espagne " — the new theatre in the Boule- 
 vard Poissonniore — to see Madame Cantharidi in 
 " Petits Bonheurs de Contrebande," which they are 
 told is immensely droll and quite proper — funny with- 
 out being vulgar ! Dodor was their informant — he 
 had taken Madame Dodor to see it three or four 
 times. 
 
 Madame Cantharidi, as everybody knows, is a very 
 clever but extremely plain old woman with a cracked 
 voice — of spotless reputation, and the irreproachable 
 mother of a grown-up family whom she has brought 
 up in perfection. They have never been allowed to 
 see their mother (and grandmother) act — not even the 
 sons. Their excellent father (who adores both them 
 and her) has drawn the line at that ! 
 
 In private life she is " quite the lady," but on the 
 stage — well, go and see her, and you will understand 
 how she comes to be the idol of the Parisian public. 
 For she is the true and liberal dispenser to them of 
 
447 
 
 that modern "esprit gaulois" which would make the 
 good Kabelais turn uneasily in his grave and blush 
 there like a Benedictine Sister. 
 
 And trul}^ she deserves the reverential love and 
 gratitude of her chers Parisiens ! She amused them 
 all through the Empire ; during the annee terrible she 
 was their only stay and comfort, and has been their 
 chief delight ever since, and is now. 
 
 "When they come back from La Revanche^ may 
 Madame Cantharidi be still at her post, " Les mouches 
 
 "PETITS BONHEURS DE CONTREBANDE " 
 
 d'Espagne," to welcome the returning heroes, and 
 exult and crow with them in her funny cracked old 
 voice ; or, haply, even console them once more, as the 
 case may be. 
 
 "Victors or vanquished, they will laugh the 
 same !" 
 
 Mrs. Taffy is a poor French scholar. One must 
 
448 
 
 know French very well indeed (and many other 
 things besides) to seize the subtle points of Madame 
 Cantharidi's play (and by-play) ! 
 
 But Madame Cantharidi has so droll a face and 
 voice, and such very droll, odd movements that Mrs. 
 Taffy goes into fits of laughter as soon as the quaint 
 little old lady comes on the stage. So heartily does 
 she laugh that a good Parisian bourgeois turns round 
 and remarks to his wife : " Via une jolie p'tite An- 
 glaise qui n'est pas begueule, au moins! Et 1' gros 
 boeuf avec les yeux bleus en boules de loto — c'est son 
 mari, sans doute ! il n'a pas I'air trop content par ex- 
 emple, celui-la !" 
 
 The fact is that the good Taffy (who knoAvs French 
 very well indeed) is quite scandalized, and very angry 
 with Dodor for sending them there; and as soon as 
 the first act is finished he means, without any fuss, to 
 take his wife away. 
 
 As he sits patiently, too indignant to laugh at what 
 is really funny in the piece (much of it is vulgar ^oith- 
 out being funny), he finds himself watching a little 
 white-haired man in the orchestra, a fiddler, the shape 
 of whose back seems somehow familiar, as he plays an 
 ohhligato accompaniment to a very broadly comic song 
 of Madame Cantharidi's. He plays beautifully — like 
 a master — and the loud applause is as much for him as 
 for the vocalist. 
 
 Presently this fiddler turns his head so tl)at his pro- 
 file can be seen, and Taffy recognizes him. 
 
 After five minutes' thought, Taffy takes a leaf out 
 of his pocket-book and writes (in perfectly grammat- 
 ical French) : 
 
449 
 
 "Deak Gecko, — You have not forgotten Taffy- 
 Wynne, I hope; and Litrebili, and Litrebili's sister, 
 who is now Mrs. Taffy "Wynne. We leave Paris to- 
 morrow, and would like very much to see you once 
 more. Will you, after the play, come and sup with 
 us at the Cafe Anglais? If so, look up and make 
 ' yes ' with the head, and enchant 
 
 " Your well-devoted Taffy Wynne." 
 
 He gives this, folded, to an attendant — for " le pre- 
 mier violon — celui qui a des cheveux blancs." 
 
 Presently he sees Gecko receive the note and read 
 it and ponder for a while. 
 
 Then Gecko looks round the theatre, and Taffy 
 waves his handkerchief and catches the eye of the 
 premier violon, who "makes 'yes' with the head." 
 
 And then, the first act over, Mr. and Mrs. Wynne 
 leave the theatre ; Mr. explaining why, and Mrs. very 
 ready to go, as she was beginning to feel strangely 
 uncomfortable without quite realizing as yet what 
 was amiss with the lively Madame Cantharidi. 
 
 Tliey went to the Cafe Anglais and bespoke a nice 
 little room on the entresol overlooking the boulevard, 
 and ordered a nice little supper; salmi of something 
 very good, mayonnaise of lobster, and one or two 
 other dishes better still — and chambertin of the best. 
 Tuffy was particular about these things on a holiday, 
 and regardless of expense. Porthos was very hospi- 
 table, and liked good food and plenty of it ; and Athos 
 dearly loved good wine ! 
 
 And then they went and sat at a little round table 
 outside the Cafe de la Paix on the boulevard, neai 
 
 29 
 
450 
 
 the Grand Opera, where it is always very gay, and 
 studied Paris life, and nursed their appetites till sup- 
 per-tirae. 
 
 At half-past eleven Gecko made his appearance — 
 very meek and humble. He looked old — ten years 
 older than he really was — much bowed down, and as 
 if he had roughed it all his life, and had found living 
 a desperate long, hard grind. 
 
 He kissed Mrs. Taffy's hand, and seemed half in- 
 clined to kiss Taffy's too, and was almost tearful in 
 his pleasure at meeting them again, and his gratitude 
 at being asked to sup with them. He had soft, cling- 
 ing, caressing manners, like a nice dog's, that made 
 you his friend at once. He was obviously genuine 
 and sincere, and quite pathetically simple, as he al- 
 ways had been. 
 
 At first he could scarcely eat for nervous excite- 
 ment; but Taffy's fine example and Mrs. Taffy's ge- 
 nial, easy-going cordiality (and a couple of glasses of 
 chambertin) soon put him at his ease and woke up his 
 dormant appetite ; which was a very large one, poor 
 fellow! 
 
 He was told all about Little Billee's death, and 
 deeply moved to hear the cause which had brought 
 it about, and then they talked of Trilby. 
 
 He pulled her watch out of his waistcoat - pocket 
 and reverently kissed it, exclaiming: " Ah ! c'etait un 
 ange ! un ange du Paradis ! when I tell you I lived 
 with them for five years! Oh! her kindness, Dio, dio 
 Maria ! It was ' Gecko this!' and ' Gecko that !' and 
 ' Poor Gecko, your toothache, how it worries me !' and 
 ' Gecko, how tired and pale you look — you distress 
 
ENTER GECKO 
 
452 
 
 me so, looking like that ! Shall I mix you a mai- 
 trank V And ' Gecko, you love artichokes a la Bari- 
 goule ; they remind you of Paris — I have heard you 
 say so, "Well, I have found out where to get arti- 
 chokes, and I know how to do them a la Barigoule, 
 and you shall have them for dinner to-day and to- 
 morrow and all the week after !' and we did ! 
 
 " Ach ! dear kind one — what did I really care for 
 artichokes a la Barigoule ? . . . 
 
 "And it was always like that — always — and to 
 Svengali and old Marta just the same ! and she was 
 never well — never ! toujours souffrante ! 
 
 " And it was she who supported us all — in luxury 
 and splendor sometimes !" 
 
 " And what an artist !" said Taffy. 
 
 "Ah, yes! but all that was Svengali, you know, 
 Svengali was the greatest artist I ever met ! Mon- 
 sieur, Svengali was a demon, a magician ! I used to 
 think liira a god ! He found me playing in the streets 
 for copper coins, and took me by tiie hand, and was 
 m}'^ only friend, and taught me all I ever knew — and 
 yet he could not play my instrument ! 
 
 " And now he is dead, I have forgotten how to play it 
 myself ! Tliat English jail ! it demoralized me, ruined 
 me forever! acli ! quel enfer, nom de Dieu (pardon, ma- 
 dame)! I am just good enough to play the ohhligato at 
 the Mouches d'Espagne, when the old Cantharidi sings, 
 
 "'Via moil mari qui r'garcle 
 
 Prcuds garde — iie m'cbatouille plus !' 
 
 " It does not want much of an ohhligato, hein, a 
 song so noble and so beautiful as that ! 
 
453 
 
 " And that song, monsieur, all Paris is singing it 
 now. And that is the Paris that went mad when 
 Trilby sang the 'Nussbaum' of Schumann at the Salle 
 des Bashibazoucks. You heard her? Well!" 
 
 And here poor Gecko tried to laugh a little sardonic 
 laugh in falsetto, like Svengali's, full of scorn and bit- 
 terness — and very nearly succeeded. 
 
 "But Avhat made you strike him with — with that 
 knife, you know ?" 
 
 "Ah, monsieur, it had been coming on for a long 
 time. lie used to Avork Trilby too hard ; it was kill- 
 ing her — it killed her at last ! And then at the end 
 he was unkind to her and scolded her and called her 
 names — horrid names — and then one day in London 
 he struck her. He struck her on the fingers with his 
 baton, and she fell down on her knees and cried . . . 
 
 " Monsieur, I would have defended Trilby against 
 a locomotive going grande vitesse! against my own 
 father — against the Emperor of Austria — against the 
 Pope ! and 1 am a good Catholic, monsieur ! I would 
 have gone to the scaffold for her, and to the devil 
 after !" 
 
 And he piously crossed himself. 
 
 "But, Svengali — wasn't he very fond of her?" 
 
 " Oh yes, monsieur ! quant a ga, passionately ! But 
 she did not love him as he wished to be loved. She 
 loved Litrebili, monsieur! Litrebili, the brother of 
 madame. And I suppose that Svengali grew angry 
 and jealous at last. He changed as soon as he came 
 to Paris. Perhaps Paris reminded him of Litrebili — 
 and reminded Trilby, too !" 
 
 "But how on earth did Svengali ever manage to 
 
454 
 
 teach her how to sing like that ? She had no ear for 
 music whatever when we knew her !" 
 
 Gecko was silent for a while, and Taffy filled his 
 glass, and gave him a cigar, and lit one himself. 
 
 " Monsieur, no — that is true. She had not much 
 ear. But she had such a voice as had never been 
 heard. Svengali knew that. He had found it out 
 long ago. Litolff had found it out, too. One day 
 Svengali heard Litoltf tell Meyerbeer that the most 
 beautiful female voice in Europe belonged to an Eng- 
 lish grjsette who sat as a model to sculptors in the 
 quartier latin, but that unfortunately she was quite 
 tone-deaf, and couldn't sing one single note in tune. 
 Imagine how Svengali chuckled ! I see it from here! 
 
 " Well, we both taught her together — for three 
 years — morning, noon, and night — six — eight hours a 
 day. It used to split me the heart to see her worked 
 like that ! We took her voice note by note^there was 
 no end to her notes, each more beautiful than the 
 other — velvet and gold, beautiful flowers, pearls, dia- 
 monds, rubies — drops of dew and honey ; peaches, 
 oranges, and lemons ! en veux-tu en voila ! — all the 
 perfumes and spices of the Garden of Eden ! Svengali 
 with his little flexible flageolet, I with my violin — that 
 is how we taught her to make the sounds — and then 
 how to use them. She was a phenomene, monsieur ! 
 She could keep on one note and make it go through 
 all the colors in the rainbow — according to the way 
 Svengali looked at her. It would make you laugh — it 
 would make you cry — but, cry or laugh, it was the 
 sweetest, the most touching, the most beautiful note 
 you ever heard — except all her others ! and each had 
 
" ' WE TOOK HER VOICE NOTE BY NOTE ' " 
 
 as many overtones as the bells in the Carillon de Kotre 
 Dame. She could run up and down the scales, chro- 
 matic scales, quicker and better and smoother than 
 Svengah on the piano, and more in tune than any 
 piano! and her shake — ach ! twin stars, monsieur! 
 She was the greatest contralto, the greatest soprano 
 the world has ever known ! the like of her has never 
 been ! the like of her will never be again ! and yet she 
 only sang in public for two years. 
 
 " Ach ! tfiose breaks and runs and sudden leaps from 
 darkness into light and back again — from earth to 
 heaven! , , . those slurs and swoops and slides a la 
 
456 
 
 Paganini from one note to another, like a swallow fly- 
 ing ! ... or a gull ! Do you remember them ? how 
 they drove you mad? Let any other singer in the 
 world try to imitate them — they would make you 
 sick ! That was Svengali ... he was a magician ! 
 
 " And how she looked, singing ! do you remember ? 
 her hands behind her— her dear, sweet, slender foot 
 on a little stool — her thick hair lying down all along 
 her back! And that good smile like the Madonna's 
 so soft and bright and kind ! Ach ! Bel ucel dl Dio ! 
 it was to make, you weep for love, merely to see her 
 {c'etait a vous faire pleurer cf amour, rien que de la 
 voir) ! That was Trilby ! Nightingale and bird-of- 
 paradise in one ! 
 
 " Enfin she could do anything — utter any sound she 
 liked, when once Svengali had shown her how — and 
 he was the greatest master that ever lived ! and when 
 once she knew a thing, she knew it. Et voildf^ 
 
 " How strange," said Taffy, " that she should have 
 suddenly gone out of her senses that night at Drury 
 Lane, and so completely forgotten it all ! I suppose 
 she saw Svengali die in the box opposite, and that 
 drove her mad !" 
 
 And then Taffy told the little fiddler about Trilby's 
 death-song, like a swan's, and Svengali's photograph. 
 But Gecko had heard it all from Marta, who was now 
 dead. 
 
 Gecko sat and smoked and pondered for a while, 
 and looked from one to the other. Then he pulled 
 himself together with an effort, so to spe^k, and said, 
 "Monsieur, she never went mad — not for one mo- 
 ment !" 
 
457 
 
 " What ! Do you mean to say she deceived us all ?" 
 
 " Non, monsieur ! She could never deceive anybody, 
 and never would. She had forgotten — noild tout /" 
 
 "But hang it all, my friend, one doesn't forget 
 such a — " 
 
 " Monsieur, listen ! She is dead. And Svengali is 
 dead — and Marta also. And I have a good Httle mal- 
 ady that will kill me soon, Gott sei dank — and without 
 much pain. 
 
 " I will tell you a secret. 
 
 " There were two Trilhys. There was the Trilby you 
 knew, who could not sing one single note in tune. She 
 was an angel of paradise. She is now ! But slie had 
 no more idea of singing than I have of winning a 
 steeple-chase at the croix de Berny. She could no 
 more sing than a fiddle can play itself ! She could 
 never tell one tune from another — one note from the 
 next. Do you remember how she tried to sing 'Ben 
 Bolt' that day when she first came to the studio in 
 the Place St. Anatole des Arts? It was droll, heinf 
 €b se toucher les oreilles ! Well, that was Trilby, your 
 Trilby ! that was my Trilby too — and I loved her as 
 one loves an only love, an only sister, an only child — 
 a gentle martyr on earth, a blessed saint in heaven ! 
 And that Trilby was enough for me ! 
 
 " And that was the Trilby that loved your brother, 
 madame — oh! but with all the love that was in her! 
 He did not know what he had lost, your brother! 
 Her love, it was immense, like her voice, and just as 
 full of celestial sweetness and sympathy! She told 
 me everything ! ce pauvre Litrehili, ce quHl a perdu! 
 
 " But all at once — pr-r-r-out ! presto ! augenblick ! 
 
458 
 
 . . . with one wave of his hand over her — with one 
 look of his eye — with a word — Svengali could turn 
 her into the other Trilby, his Trilby, and make her 
 do whatever he liked . . . you might have run a red- 
 hot needle into her and she would not have felt it. . . . 
 
 " He had but to say ' Dors !' and she suddenly be- 
 came an unconscious Trilby of marble, who could pro- 
 duce wonderful sounds — just the sounds he wanted, 
 and nothing else — and think his thoughts and wish 
 his wishes — and love him at his biddino: with a strange 
 unreal factitious love . . . just his own love for himself 
 turned inside out — a Venvers — and reflected back on 
 him, as from a mirror . . . un echo, un slmulacre, quoi! 
 pas autre chose / . . . It was not worth having ! I 
 was not even jealous ! 
 
 "Well, that was the Trilby he taught how to sing 
 — and — and I helped him, God of heaven forgive me ! 
 That Trilby was just a singing machine — an organ to 
 play upon — an instrument of music — a Stradivarius — a 
 flexible flageolet of flesh and blood — a voice, and noth- 
 ing more — just the unconscious voice that Svengali 
 sang with — for it takes two to sing like la Svengali, 
 monsieur — the one who has got the voice, and the one 
 who knows what to do with it. . . , So that when you 
 heard her sing the ' JSTussbaum,' the ' Impromptu,' you 
 heard Svengali singing with her voice, just as you 
 hear Joachim play a chaconne of Bach with his fiddle ! 
 . . . Herr Joachim's fiddle . . . what does it know 
 of Sebastian Bach ? and as for chaconnes . . . il s'en 
 moque pas mal, cefameux violon! . . . 
 
 " And our Trilby . . . what did she know of Schu- 
 mann, Chopin ? — nothing at all ! She mocked herself 
 
459 
 
 not badly of Nussbauras and impromptus . . . they 
 would make her yawn to demantibulate her jaws! 
 . . . When Svengali's Trilby was being taught to 
 sing . . . when Svengali's Trilby was singing — or 
 
 THE nightingale's FIRST SONG 
 
 seemed to you as if she were singing — our Trilby had 
 ceased to exist . . . our Trilby was fast asleep . . . 
 in fact, our Trilby was dead. . . . 
 
 "Ah, monsieur . . . that Trilby of Svengali's! I 
 
460 
 
 have heard her sing to kings and queens in royal pal- 
 aces ! ... as no woman has ever sung before or since. 
 ... I have seen emperors and grand-dukes kiss her 
 hand, monsieur — and their wives and daughters kiss 
 her lips, and weep. . . . 
 
 " I have seen the horses taken out of her sledge and 
 the pick of the nobility drag her home to the hotel 
 . . . with torchlights and choruses and shoutings of 
 glory and long life to her! . . . and serenades all 
 nio-ht, under her window ! . . . she never knew ! she 
 heard nothing — felt nothing — saw nothing! and she 
 bowed to them, right and left, like a queen ! 
 
 " I have played the fiddle for her while she sang in 
 the streets, at fairs and festas and Kerraessen . . . and 
 seen the people go mad to hear her . . . and once, 
 at Prague, Svengali fell down in a fit from sheer excite- 
 ment! and then, suddenly, our Trilby woke up and 
 wondered what it was all about . . . and we took him 
 home and put him to bed and left him with Marta — 
 and Trilby and I went together arm in arm all over 
 the town to fetch a doctor and buy things for supper 
 — and that was the happiest hour in all my life ! 
 
 "Ach! w^hat an existence! what travels! what tri- 
 umphs! what adventures! Things to fill a book — a 
 dozen books — Those five happy years— with those 
 two Trilbys! what recollections! ... I think of 
 nothing else, night or day . . . even as I play the 
 fiddle for old Cantharidi. Ach ! ... To think how 
 often I have played the fiddle for la Svengali ... to 
 have done that is to have lived . . . and then to 
 come home to Trilby . . . our Trilby . . . the real 
 Trilby ! . . . Got sei dank ! Ich habe gelieht und ge- 
 
461 
 
 lehet ! geliebt und gelebet ! geliebt und gelebet ! Cristo 
 di Dio . . . Sweet sister in heaven ... 6 Dieu de 
 Misere, ayez pitie de nous. . . ." 
 
 His eyes were red, and his voice was high and shrill 
 and tremulous and full of tears ; these remembrances 
 were too much for him ; and perhaps also the cham- 
 bertin ! He put his elbows on the table and hid his 
 face in his hands and wept, muttering to himself in 
 his own language 
 (whatever that might 
 have been — Polish, 
 probably) as if he 
 were praying. 
 
 Taffy and his wife 
 
 " ' ICH HA BE GELIEBT UND QELEBET P " 
 
463 
 
 got up and leaned on the window-bar and looked out 
 on the deserted boulevards, where an army of scaven- 
 gers, noiseless and taciturn, was cleansing tlie asphalt 
 roadway. The night above was dark, but " star-dials 
 hinted of morn," and a fresh breeze had sprung up, 
 making the leaves dance and rustle on the sycamore- 
 trees along the Boulevard — a nice little breeze; just 
 the sort of little breeze to do Paris good. A four- 
 wheel cab came by at a foot pace, the driver humming 
 a tune ; Taffy hailed him ; he said, " V'hi, m'sieur !" 
 and drew up. 
 
 Taffy rang the bell, and asked for the bill, and paid 
 it. Gecko had apparentl}^ fallen asleep. Taffy gen- 
 tly woke him up, and told him how late it was. The 
 poor little man seemed dazed and rather tipsy, and 
 looked older than ever; sixty, seventy— any age you 
 like. Taffy helped him on with his great-coat, and, 
 taking him by the arm, led him down-stairs, giving 
 him his card, and telling him how glad he was to 
 have seen him, and that he would write to him from 
 England — a promise which was kept, one may be sure. 
 
 Gecko uncovered his fuzzy white head, and took 
 Mrs. Taffy's hand and kissed it, and thanked her 
 warmly for her " si bon et sympathique accueil." 
 
 Then Taffy all but lifted him into the cab, the jolly 
 cabman saying r 
 
 "Ah I bon — connais bien, celui la; vous savez — 
 c'est lui qui joue du violon aux Mouclies d'Espagne ! 
 II a soupe, r bourgeois ; n'est-ce pas, m'sieur ? ' petits 
 bonheurs de contrebande,' hein? . . . ayez pas peur ! on 
 vous aura soin de lui! il joue joliment bien, m'sieur; 
 n'est-ce pas ?" 
 
463 
 
 Taffy shook Gecko's hand, and asked, 
 
 " Ou restez-vous, Gecko ?" 
 
 " Quarante - huit, Rue des Pousse - cailloux, au cin- 
 quieme." 
 
 "How strange!" said Taffy to his wife — "how 
 touching ! why, that's where Trilby used to live — the 
 very number! the very floor !" 
 
 " Oui, oui," said Gecko, waking up ; " c'est I'ancienne 
 mansarde a Trilby — j'y suis depuis douze ans—fi/ suis, 
 ff/ Teste. ..." 
 
 And he laughed feebly at his mild little joke. 
 
 Taffy told tlie address to the cabman, and gave him 
 five francs. 
 
 "Merci, m'sieur! C'est de I'aut' cute de I'eau — 
 pres de la Soi'bonne, s'pas ''. On vous aura soin du 
 bourgeois ; soyez tranquille — ayez pas peur ! quarante- 
 huit ; on y va ! Bonsoir, monsieur et dame !" And 
 he clacked his whip and rattled away, singing : 
 
 " V'lil moil mari qui r'garde — 
 Prends garde ! 
 Ne m'chatouiir plus !" 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Wynne walked back to the hotel, which 
 was not far. She hung on to his big arm and crept 
 close to him, and shivered a little. It was quite chilly. 
 Their footsteps were very audible in the stillness ; "pit- 
 pat, flopety-clop." otherwise they Avere both silent. 
 They were tired, yawny, sleepy, and very sad ; and 
 each was thinking (and knew the other was thinking) 
 that a week in Paris was just enough — and how nice it 
 would be, in just a few hours more, to hear the rooks 
 cawing round their own quiet little English country 
 
464 
 
 home — where three jolly boys would soon be coming 
 for the holidays. 
 
 And there we Avill leave them to their useful, hum- 
 drum, happy domestic existence — than which there is 
 no better that I know of, at their time of life — and no 
 better time of life than theirs ! 
 
 " Oil petit on etre mieux qu'au sein de sa famille?" 
 
 That blessed harbor of refuge well within our reach, 
 and having really cut our wisdom teeth at last, and 
 learned the ropes, and left off hankering after the 
 moon — we can do with so little down here. . . . 
 
 A little work, a lilt.le play- 
 To keep us going — and so, good-day 1 
 
 A little warmth, a little light 
 
 Of love's bestowing — and so, good-night! 
 
 A little fun, to match the sorrow 
 
 Of each day's growing — and so, good-morrow i 
 
 A little trust that when we die 
 
 We reap our sowing ! And so — good-bye 1 
 
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