Trilby · Part 3 (2/4)

Their Little Billee, so young and tender, so weak of body, 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 forevermore.

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 underlip 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 père Trin’s, and Trilby went back to her blanchisserie 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 reverence.

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 blanchisseuse de fin has not many minutes to spare from her irons. But they often met at dinner. And on Sunday mornings Trilby 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 ever, with the fencing and boxing, the piano-playing and fiddling⁠—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 themselves, and these bones were constructed on such right principles (as were those of her brow and chin and the bridge of her nose) that the improvement was astonishing, 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 succeeding generation. These were the days of Buckner’s aristocratic Album beauties, with lofty foreheads, oval 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 shopwindows. 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. Rossetti might have evolved another new formula from her; Sir John Millais another old one of the kind that is always 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 policeman. Not that she was a giantess, by any means. She was about as tall as Miss Ellen Terry⁠—and that is a charming height, I 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 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 metamorphosis. “Ach, Drilpy,” he would say, on a Sunday afternoon, “how beautiful you are! It drives me mad! I adore you. I like you thinner; you have such beautiful bones! Why do you not answer my letters? What! you do not read them? You burn 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 cancan 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, we Germans. We will make music for them to dance to! Boum! boum! Better than the waiter at the Café de la Rotonde, hein? And the grisettes of the quartier latin shall pour us out your little white wine⁠—‘fotre betit fin planc,’ as your pig-dog monkey of a poet says, your rotten verfluchter De Musset, ‘who has got 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 Heinrich Heine. If he’s still alive, he lives in Paris, in a little street off the Champs Élysées. He lies in bed all day long, and only sees out of one eye, like the Countess Hahn-Hahn, ha! ha! He adores French grisettes. He married one. Her name is Mathilde, and she has got süssen füssen, like you. He would adore you too, for your beautiful 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 you 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 École de Médecine, 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 English 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 your skeleton for you.”

Thus the short-tempered Taffy, who had been listening.

Then Svengali, scowling, would play Chopin’s funeral 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 yellow 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 different 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, 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 Christmastime.

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 begun and finished⁠—little pictures that didn’t take long to paint⁠—the Laird’s Spanish bullfighting 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, drownings⁠—suicides by charcoal and poison⁠—which he sent everywhere, 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 mealtime, and less talkative even than usual.

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 remarkable, and have become famous since then in England, 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 while⁠—like a French train when the engine-driver sees a long curved tunnel in front of him, as I do⁠—and no light at the other end!

My humble attempts at characterization might be useful as mémoires pour servir to future biographers. 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 people, 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 marry. He was Pygmalion; she was his Galatea⁠—a Galatea whose marble heart would never beat for him!

Durien’s house is now the finest in the Parc Monceau; his wife and daughters are the best-dressed women in Paris, and he one of the happiest of men; but he will never quite forget poor Galatea:

“La belle aux pieds d’albâtre⁠—aux deux talons de rose!”

Then there was Vincent, a Yankee medical student, who could both work and play.

He is now one of the greatest oculists in the world, and Europeans cross the Atlantic to consult him. He can still play, and when he crosses the Atlantic himself 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. Indeed, these fair young ladies spend their autumn holiday 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 delivered himself thus: “Humph! 3:30! rather late⁠—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 possibly can. Some people prefer Baratte. I prefer Bordier myself. Perhaps 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 was a great favorite in the Place St. Anatole, for his bonhomie, his niceness, his warm geniality. He was the capitalist of this select circle (and nobly lavish of his capital). He went by the name of Poluphloisboiospaleapologos Petrilopetrolicoconose⁠—for so he was christened by the Laird⁠—because his real name was thought much too long and much too lovely 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? He spoke French like a native! Nobody knows. But when his Paris friends transferred their bohemia to London, where were they ever made happier and more at home than in his lordly parental abode⁠—or fed with nicer things?

That abode is now his, and lordlier than ever, as becomes the dwelling of a millionaire and city magnate; 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 Balliol, redolent 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 overcoat 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 made him sick.