Роберт Льюис Стивенсон
The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 4
CHAPTER IV
To the west of Castel-le-Gâchis four rows of venerable lime-trees formed, in this starry night, a twilit avenue with two side aisles of pitch darkness. Here and there stone benches were disposed between the trunks. There was not a breath of wind; a heavy atmosphere of perfume hung about the alleys; and every leaf stood stock-still upon its twig. Hither, after vainly knocking at an inn or two, the Berthelinis came at length to pass the night. After an amiable contention, Léon insisted on giving his coat to Elvira, and they sat down together on the first bench in silence. Léon made a cigarette, which he smoked to an end, looking up into the trees, and beyond them at the constellations, of which he tried vainly to recall the names. The silence was broken by the church bell; it rang the four quarters on a light and tinkling measure; then followed a single deep stroke that died slowly away with a thrill; and stillness resumed its empire.
“One,” said Léon. “Four hours till daylight. It is warm; it is starry; I have matches and tobacco. Do not let us exaggerate, Elvira – the experience is positively charming. I feel a glow within me; I am born again. This is the poetry of life. Think of Cooper’s novels, my dear.”
“Léon,” she said fiercely, “how can you talk such wicked, infamous nonsense? To pass all night out of doors – it is like a nightmare! We shall die!”
“You suffer yourself to be led away,” he replied soothingly. “It is not unpleasant here; only you brood. Come, now, let us repeat a scene. Shall we try Alceste and Célimène? No? Or a passage from the Two Orphans? Come, now, it will occupy your mind; I will play up to you as I never have played before; I feel art moving in my bones.”
“Hold your tongue,” she cried, “or you will drive me mad! Will nothing solemnise you – not even this hideous situation?”
“Oh, hideous!” objected Léon. “Hideous is not the word. Why, where would you be? ‘Dites, la jeune belle, où voulez-vous aller?’” he carolled. “Well, now,” he went on, opening the guitar-case, “there’s another idea for you – sing. Sing ‘Dites, la jeune belle’! It will compose your spirits, Elvira, I am sure.”
And without waiting an answer he began to strum the symphony. The first chords awoke a young man who was lying asleep upon a neighbouring bench.
“Hullo!” cried the young man, “who are you?”
“Under which king, Bezonian?” declaimed the artist. “Speak or die!”
Or if it was not exactly that, it was something to much the same purpose from a French tragedy.
The young man drew near in the twilight. He was a tall, powerful, gentlemanly fellow, with a somewhat puffy face, dressed in a grey tweed suit, with a deer-stalker hat of the same material; and as he now came forward he carried a knapsack slung upon one arm.
“Are you camping out here too?” he asked, with a strong English accent. “I’m not sorry for company.”
Léon explained their misadventure; and the other told them that he was a Cambridge undergraduate on a walking tour, that he had run short of money, could no longer pay for his night’s lodging, had already been camping out for two nights, and feared he should require to continue the same manœuvre for at least two nights more.
“Luckily, it’s jolly weather,” he concluded.
“You hear that, Elvira,” said Léon. – “Madame Berthelini,” he went on, “is ridiculously affected by this trifling occurrence. For my part, I find it romantic and far from uncomfortable; or at least,” he added, shifting on the stone bench, “not quite so uncomfortable as might have been expected. But pray be seated.”
“Yes,” returned the undergraduate, sitting down, “it’s rather nice than otherwise when once you’re used to it; only it’s devilish difficult to get washed. I like the fresh air and these stars and things.”
“Aha!” said Léon, “Monsieur is an artist.”
“An artist?” returned the other, with a blank stare. “Not if I know it!”
“Pardon me,” said the actor. “What you said this moment about the orbs of heaven – “
“Oh, nonsense!” cried the Englishman. “A fellow may admire the stars and be anything he likes.”
“You have an artist’s nature, however, Mr. – I beg your pardon; may I, without indiscretion, inquire your name?” asked Léon.
“My name is Stubbs,” replied the Englishman.
“I thank you,” returned Léon. “Mine is Berthelini – Léon Berthelini, ex-artist of the theatres of Montrouge, Belleville, and Montmartre. Humble as you see me, I have created with applause more than one important rôle. The Press were unanimous in praise of my Howling Devil of the Mountains, in the piece of the same name. Madame, whom I now present to you, is herself an artist, and I must not omit to state, a better artist than her husband. She also is a creator; she created nearly twenty successful songs at one of the principal Parisian music-halls. But to continue: I was saying you had an artist’s nature, Monsieur Stubbs, and you must permit me to be a judge in such a question. I trust you will not falsify your instincts; let me beseech you to follow the career of an artist.”
“Thank you,” returned Stubbs, with a chuckle. “I’m going to be a banker.”
“No,” said Leon, “do not say so. Not that. A man with such a nature as yours should not derogate so far. What are a few privations here and there, so long as you are working for a high and noble goal?”
“This fellow’s mad,” thought Stubbs: “but the woman’s rather pretty, and he’s not bad fun himself, if you come to that.” What he said was different: “I thought you said you were an actor?”
“I certainly did so,” replied Léon. “I am one, or, alas! I was.”
“And so you want me to be an actor, do you?” continued the undergraduate. “Why, man, I could never so much as learn the stuff; my memory’s like a sieve; and as for acting, I’ve no more idea than a cat.”
“The stage is not the only course,” said Léon. “Be a sculptor, be a dancer, be a poet or a novelist; follow your heart, in short, and do some thorough work before you die.”
“And do you call all these things art?” inquired Stubbs.
“Why, certainly!” returned Léon. “Are they not all branches?”
“Oh! I didn’t know,” replied the Englishman. “I thought an artist meant a fellow who painted.”
The singer stared at him in some surprise.
“It is the difference of language,” he said at last. “This Tower of Babel, when shall we have paid for it? If I could speak English you would follow me more readily.”
“Between you and me, I don’t believe I should,” replied the other. “You seem to have thought a devil of a lot about this business. For my part, I admire the stars, and like to have them shining – it’s so cheery – but hang me if I had an idea it had anything to do with art! It’s not in my line, you see. I’m not intellectual; I have no end of trouble to scrape through my exams., I can tell you! But I’m not a bad sort at bottom,” he added, seeing his interlocutor looked distressed even in the dim star-shine, “and I rather like the play, and music, and guitars, and things.”
Léon had a perception that the understanding was incomplete. He changed the subject.
“And so you travel on foot?” he continued. “How romantic! How courageous! And how are you pleased with my land? How does the scenery affect you among these wild hills of ours?”
“Well, the fact is,” began Stubbs – he was about to say that he didn’t care for scenery, which was not at all true, being, on the contrary, only an athletic undergraduate pretension; but he had begun to suspect that Berthelini liked a different sort of meat, and substituted something else: “The fact is, I think it jolly. They told me it was no good up here; even the guide-book said so; but I don’t know what they meant. I think it is deuced pretty – upon my word, I do.”
At this moment, in the most unexpected manner, Elvira burst into tears.
“My voice!” she cried. “Léon, if I stay here longer I shall lose my voice!”
“You shall not stay another moment,” cried the actor.
“If I have to beat in a door, if I have to burn the town, I shall find you shelter.”
With that, he replaced the guitar, and, comforting her with some caresses, drew her arm through his.
“Monsieur Stubbs,” said he, taking off his hat, “the reception I offer you is rather problematical; but let me beseech you to give us the pleasure of your society. You are a little embarrassed for the moment; you must, indeed, permit me to advance what may be necessary. I ask it as a favour; we must not part so soon after having met so strangely.”
“Oh, come, you know,” said Stubbs, “I can’t let a fellow like you – ” And there he paused, feeling somehow or other on a wrong tack.
“I do not wish to employ menaces,” continued Léon, with a smile; “but if you refuse, indeed I shall not take it kindly.”
“I don’t quite see my way out of it,” thought the undergraduate; and then, after a pause, he said, aloud and ungraciously enough, “All right. I – I’m very much obliged, of course.” And he proceeded to follow them, thinking in his heart, “But it’s bad form, all the same, to force an obligation on a fellow.”
CHAPTER V
Léon strode ahead as if he knew exactly where he was going; the sobs of Madame were still faintly audible, and no one uttered a word. A dog barked furiously in a courtyard as they went by; then the church clock struck two, and many domestic clocks followed or preceded it in piping tones. And just then Berthelini spied a light. It burned in a small house on the outskirts of the town, and thither the party now directed their steps.
“It is always a chance,” said Léon.
The house in question stood back from the street behind an open space, part garden, part turnip-field; and several outhouses stood forward from either wing at right angles to the front. One of these had recently undergone some change. An enormous window, looking towards the north, had been effected in the wall and roof, and Léon began to hope it was a studio.
“If it’s only a painter,” he said, with a chuckle, “ten to one we get as good a welcome as we want.”
“I thought painters were principally poor,” said Stubbs.
“Ah!” cried Leon, “you do not know the world as I do. The poorer the better for us!”
And the trio advanced into the turnip-field.
The light was in the ground floor; as one window was brightly illuminated and two others more faintly, it might be supposed that there was a single lamp in one corner of a large apartment; and a certain tremulousness and temporary dwindling showed that a live fire contributed to the effect. The sound of a voice now became audible; and the trespassers paused to listen. It was pitched in a high, angry key, but had still a good, full, and masculine note in it. The utterance was voluble, too voluble even to be quite distinct; a stream of words, rising and falling, with ever and again a phrase thrown out by itself, as if the speaker reckoned on its virtue.
Suddenly another voice joined in. This time it was a woman’s; and if the man were angry, the woman was incensed to the degree of fury. There was that absolutely blank composure known to suffering males; that colourless unnatural speech which shows a spirit accurately balanced between homicide and hysterics; the tone in which the best of women sometimes utter words worse than death to those most dear to them. If Abstract Bones-and-Sepulchre were to be endowed with the gift of speech, thus, and not otherwise, would it discourse. Léon was a brave man, and I fear he was somewhat sceptically given (he had been educated in a Papistical country), but the habit of childhood prevailed, and he crossed himself devoutly. He had met several women in his career. It was obvious that his instinct had not deceived him, for the male voice broke forth instantly in a towering passion.
The undergraduate, who had not understood the significance of the woman’s contribution, pricked up his ears at the change upon the man.
“There’s going to be a free fight,” he opined.
There was another retort from the woman, still calm, but a little higher.
“Hysterics?” asked Léon of his wife. “Is that the stage direction?”
“How should I know?” returned Elvira, somewhat tartly.
“Oh, woman, woman!” said Léon, beginning to open the guitar-case. “It is one of the burdens of my life, Monsieur Stubbs; they support each other; they always pretend there is no system; they say it’s nature. Even Madame Berthelini, who is a dramatic artist!”
“You are heartless, Léon,” said Elvira; “that woman is in trouble.”
“And the man, my angel?” inquired Berthelini, passing the ribbon of his guitar. “And the man, m’amour?”
“He is a man,” she answered.
“You hear that?” said Léon to Stubbs. “It is not too late for you. Mark the intonation. And now,” he continued, “what are we to give them?”
“Are you going to sing?” asked Stubbs.
“I am a troubadour,” replied Léon. “I claim a welcome by and for my art. If I were a banker, could I do as much?”
“Well, you wouldn’t need, you know,” answered the undergraduate.
“Egad,” said Léon, “but that’s true. Elvira, that is true.”
“Of course it is,” she replied. “Did you not know it?”
“My dear,” answered Léon impressively, “I know nothing but what is agreeable. Even my knowledge of life is a work of art superiorly composed. But what are we to give them? It should be something appropriate.”
Visions of “Let dogs delight” passed through the under-graduate’s mind; but it occurred to him that the poetry was English and that he did not know the air. Hence he contributed no suggestion.
“Something about our houselessness,” said Elvira.
“I have it,” cried Léon. And he broke forth into a song of Pierre Dupont’s: —
“Savez-vous où gite
Mai, ce joli mois?”
Elvira joined in; so did Stubbs, with a good ear and voice, but an imperfect acquaintance with the music. Léon and the guitar were equal to the situation. The actor dispensed his throat-notes with prodigality and enthusiasm; and, as he looked up to heaven in his heroic way, tossing the black ringlets, it seemed to him that the very stars contributed a dumb applause to his efforts, and the universe lent him its silence for a chorus. That is one of the best features of the heavenly bodies, that they belong to everybody in particular; and a man like Léon, a chronic Endymion who managed to get along without encouragement, is always the world’s centre for himself.
He alone – and it is to be noted, he was the worst singer of the three – took the music seriously to heart, and judged the serenade from a high artistic point of view. Elvira, on the other hand, was preoccupied about their reception; and as for Stubbs, he considered the whole affair in the light of a broad joke.
“Know you the lair of May, the lovely month?” went the three voices in the turnip-field.
The inhabitants were plainly fluttered; the light moved to and fro, strengthening in one window, paling in another; and then the door was thrown open, and a man in a blouse appeared on the threshold carrying a lamp. He was a powerful young fellow, with bewildered hair and beard, wearing his neck open; his blouse was stained with oil-colours in a harlequinesque disorder; and there was something rural in the droop and bagginess of his belted trousers.
From immediately behind him, and indeed over his shoulder, a woman’s face looked out into the darkness; it was pale and a little weary, although still young; it wore a dwindling, disappearing prettiness, soon to be quite gone, and the expression was both gentle and sour, and reminded one faintly of the taste of certain drugs. For all that, it was not a face to dislike; when the prettiness had vanished, it seemed as if a certain pale beauty might step in to take its place; and as both the mildness and the asperity were characters of youth, it might be hoped that, with years, both would merge into a constant, brave, and not unkindly temper.
“What is all this?” cried the man.
CHAPTER VI
Léon had his hat in his hand at once. He came forward with his customary grace; it was a moment which would have earned him a round of cheering on the stage. Elvira and Stubbs advanced behind him, like a couple of Admetus’s sheep following the god Apollo.
“Sir,” said Léon, “the hour is unpardonably late, and our little serenade has the air of an impertinence. Believe me, sir, it is an appeal. Monsieur is an artist, I perceive. We are here three artists benighted and without shelter, one a woman – a delicate woman – in evening dress – in an interesting situation. This will not fail to touch the woman’s heart of Madame, whom I perceive indistinctly behind Monsieur her husband, and whose face speaks eloquently of a well-regulated mind. Ah! Monsieur, Madame – one generous movement, and you make three people happy! Two or three hours beside your fire – I ask it of Monsieur in the name of Art – I ask it of Madame by the sanctity of womanhood.”
The two, as by a tacit consent, drew back from the door.
“Come in,” said the man.
“Entrez, Madame,” said the woman.
The door opened directly upon the kitchen of the house, which was to all appearance the only sitting-room. The furniture was both plain and scanty; but there were one or two landscapes on the wall, handsomely framed, as if they had already visited the committee-rooms of an exhibition and been thence extruded. Léon walked up to the pictures and represented the part of a connoisseur before each in turn, with his usual dramatic insight and force. The master of the house, as if irresistibly attracted, followed him from canvas to canvas with the lamp. Elvira was led directly to the fire, where she proceeded to warm herself, while Stubbs stood in the middle of the floor and followed the proceedings of Léon with mild astonishment in his eyes.
“You should see them by daylight,” said the artist.
“I promise myself that pleasure,” said Léon. “You possess, sir, if you will permit me an observation, the art of composition to a T.”
“You are very good,” returned the other. “But should you not draw nearer to the fire?”
“With all my heart,” said Léon.
And the whole party was soon gathered at the table over a hasty and not an elegant cold supper, washed down with the least of small wines. Nobody liked the meal, but nobody complained; they put a good face upon it, one and all, and made a great clattering of knives and forks. To see Léon eating a single cold sausage was to see a triumph; by the time he had done he had got through as much pantomime as would have sufficed for a baron of beef, and he had the relaxed expression of the over-eaten.
As Elvira had naturally taken a place by the side of Léon, and Stubbs as naturally, although I believe unconsciously, by the side of Elvira, the host and hostess were left together. Yet it was to be noted that they never addressed a word to each other, nor so much as suffered their eyes to meet. The interrupted skirmish still survived in ill-feeling; and the instant the guests departed it would break forth again as bitterly as ever. The talk wandered from this to that subject – for with one accord the party had declared it was too late to go to bed; but those two never relaxed towards each other; Goneril and Regan in a sisterly tiff were not more bent on enmity.
It chanced that Elvira was so much tired by all the little excitements of the night, that for once she laid aside her company manners, which were both easy and correct, and in the most natural manner in the world leaned her head on Léon’s shoulder. At the same time, fatigue suggesting tenderness, she locked the fingers of her right hand into those of her husband’s left; and, half-closing her eyes, dozed off into a golden borderland between sleep and waking. But all the time she was not unaware of what was passing, and saw the painter’s wife studying her with looks between contempt and envy.
It occurred to Léon that his constitution demanded the use of some tobacco; and he undid his fingers from Elvira’s in order to roll a cigarette. It was gently done, and he took care that his indulgence should in no other way disturb his wife’s position. But it seemed to catch the eye of the painter’s wife with a special significancy. She looked straight before her for an instant, and then, with a swift and stealthy movement, took hold of her husband’s hand below the table. Alas! she might have spared herself the dexterity. For the poor fellow was so overcome by this caress that he stopped with his mouth open in the middle of a word, and by the expression of his face plainly declared to all the company that his thoughts had been diverted into softer channels.
If it had not been rather amiable, it would have been absurdly droll. His wife at once withdrew her touch; but it was plain she had to exert some force. Thereupon the young man coloured and looked for a moment beautiful.
Léon and Elvira both observed the by-play, and a shock passed from one to the other; for they were inveterate match-makers, especially between those who were already married.
“I beg your pardon,” said Léon suddenly. “I see no use in pretending. Before we came in here we heard sounds indicating – if I may so express myself – an imperfect harmony.”
“Sir – ” began the man.
But the woman was beforehand.
“It is quite true,” she said. “I see no cause to be ashamed. If my husband is mad I shall at least do my utmost to prevent the consequences. Picture to yourself, Monsieur and Madame,” she went on, for she passed Stubbs over, “that this wretched person – a dauber, an incompetent, not fit to be a sign-painter – receives this morning an admirable offer from an uncle – an uncle of my own, my mother’s brother, and tenderly beloved – of a clerkship with nearly a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and that he – picture to yourself! – he refuses it! Why? For the sake of Art, he says. Look at his art, I say – look at it! Is it fit to be seen? Ask him – is it fit to be sold? And it is for this, Monsieur and Madame, that he condemns me to the most deplorable existence, without luxuries, without comforts, in a vile suburb of a country town. O non!” she cried, “non – je ne me tairai pas – c’est plus fort que moi! I take these gentlemen and this lady for judges – is this kind? is it decent? is it manly? Do I not deserve better at his hands after having married him and“ – (a visible hitch) – “done everything in the world to please him?”
I doubt if there ever were a more embarrassed company at a table; every one looked like a fool; and the husband like the biggest.
“The art of Monsieur, however,” said Elvira, breaking the silence, “is not wanting in distinction.”
“It has this distinction,” said the wife, “that nobody will buy it.”
“I should have supposed a clerkship – ” began Stubbs.
“Art is Art,” swept in Léon. “I salute Art. It is the beautiful, the divine; it is the spirit of the world and the pride of life. But – ” And the actor paused.
“A clerkship – ” began Stubbs.
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said the painter. “I am an artist, and as this gentleman says, Art is this and the other; but of course, if my wife is going to make my life a piece of perdition all day long, I prefer to go and drown myself out of hand.”
“Go!” said his wife. “I should like to see you!”
“I was going to say,” resumed Stubbs, “that a fellow may be a clerk and paint almost as much as he likes. I know a fellow in a bank who makes capital water-colour sketches; he even sold one for seven-and-six.”
To both the women this seemed a plank of safety; each hopefully interrogated the countenance of her lord; even Elvira, an artist herself! – but indeed there must be something permanently mercantile in the female nature. The two men exchanged a glance; it was tragic; not otherwise might two philosophers salute, as at the end of a laborious life each recognised that he was still a mystery to his disciples.
Léon arose.
“Art is Art,” he repeated sadly. “It is not water-colour sketches, nor practising on a piano. It is a life to be lived.”
“And in the meantime people starve!” observed the woman of the house. “If that’s a life, it is not one for me.”
“I’ll tell you what,” burst forth Léon; “you, Madame, go into another room and talk it over with my wife; and I’ll stay here and talk it over with your husband. It may come to nothing, but let’s try.”
“I am very willing,” replied the young woman; and she proceeded to light a candle. “This way, if you please.” And she led Elvira upstairs into a bedroom. “The fact is,” said she, sitting down, “that my husband cannot paint.”
“No more can mine act,” replied Elvira.
“I should have thought he could,” returned the other; “he seems clever.”
“He is so, and the best of men besides,” said Elvira; “but he cannot act.”
“At least he is not a sheer humbug like mine; he can at least sing.”
“You mistake Léon,” returned his wife warmly. “He does not even pretend to sing; he has too fine a taste; he does so for a living. And, believe me, neither of the men are humbugs. They are people with a mission – which they cannot carry out.”
“Humbug or not,” replied the other, “you came very near passing the night in the fields; and, for my part, I live in terror of starvation. I should think it was a man’s mission to think twice about his wife. But it appears not. Nothing is their mission but to play the fool. Oh!” she broke out, “is it not something dreary to think of that man of mine? If he could only do it, who would care? But no – not he – no more than I can!”
“Have you any children?” asked Elvira.
“No; but then I may.”
“Children change so much,” said Elvira, with a sigh.
And just then from the room below there flew up a sudden snapping chord on the guitar; one followed after another; then the voice of Léon joined in; and there was an air being played and sung that stopped the speech of the two women. The wife of the painter stood like a person transfixed; Elvira, looking into her eyes, could see all manner of beautiful memories and kind thoughts that were passing in and out of her soul with every note; it was a piece of her youth that went before her; a green French plain, the smell of apple-flowers, the far and shining ringlets of a river, and the words and presence of love.
“Léon has hit the nail,” thought Elvira to herself. “I wonder how.”
The how was plain enough. Léon had asked the painter if there were no air connected with courtship and pleasant times; and having learned what he wished, and allowed an interval to pass, he had soared forth into
“O mon amante,
O mon désir,
Sachons cueillir
L’heure charmante!”
“Pardon me, Madame,” said the painter’s wife, “your husband sings admirably well.”
“He sings that with some feeling,” replied Elvira critically, although she was a little moved herself, for the song cut both ways in the upper chamber; “but it is as an actor and not as a musician.”
“Life is very sad,” said the other; “it so wastes away under one’s fingers.”
“I have not found it so,” replied Elvira. “I think the good parts of it last and grow greater every day.”
“Frankly, how would you advise me?”
“Frankly, I would let my husband do what he wished. He is obviously a very loving painter; you have not yet tried him as a clerk. And you know – if it were only as the possible father of your children – it is as well to keep him at his best.”
“He is an excellent fellow,” said the wife.
They kept it up till sunrise with music and all manner of good-fellowship; and at sunrise, while the sky was still temperate and clear, they separated on the threshold with a thousand excellent wishes for each other’s welfare. Castel-le-Gâchis was beginning to send up its smoke against the golden east; and the church bell was ringing six.
“My guitar is a familiar spirit,” said Léon, as he and Elvira took the nearest way towards the inn; “it resuscitated a Commissary, created an English tourist, and reconciled a man and wife.”
Stubbs, on his part, went off into the morning with reflections of his own.
“They are all mad,” thought he, “all mad – but wonderfully decent.”
