Elizabeth's Pretenders/Part 2/Chapter 1

PART II.

CHAPTER I.

Madame Martineau's pension looked upon the gardens of the Luxembourg Palace, which in the dust and heat of July in Paris were as refreshing to all the senses as an oasis in the Sahara. The quarter is unfashionable, seldom visited by the flâneurs of the Champ Elysées and Boulevards, given over almost wholly to hard-workers with their brains or fingers, the gardens haunted by their respective wives, bonnes, and babies. This is what Elizabeth had sought, and what, after three days' search and inquiry at various artist-shops, she found—a safe refuge where she might run the least risk of being tracked by any one she knew. The number of her acquaintance was as yet small in her short journey through life, and among them there was not one French person. On the morning of the fifth day after her flight from Farley she had dismissed her maid, and without leaving her address at the hotel, had driven off with her boxes to the far distant quarter where she had secured two rooms. The doing this had caused much fluttering in the dovecote over which Madame Martineau presided. Only an Englishwoman could be guilty of such extravagance, such eccentricity, as to require two rooms. But as she was ready to pay handsomely for the extra room, madame could only shrug her shoulders and mentally ejaculate, "Quelle dróle de demoiselle!"

Not till then—not till she sat down alone in her apartment, after unpacking her boxes, and leant out of its upper-floor windows looking upon the tops of the trees—did she begin to feel the reaction consequent upon the shock she had sustained. She had been driven along for the last five days on a whirlwind of passion, of revolt and disgust at everything surrounding her, from which she had fled, and which she vowed never willingly to see again. She was only now conscious of the shock which her whole moral nature had sustained. She seemed to herself to be years older than a week ago. She had been a vain and foolish child then; had she not grown to be a hard and cynical woman in these few days? With the cruel wisdom which experience alone buys, she judged not only others, but herself. Her cheeks burned with shame when she remembered how quick she had been to believe Wybrowe's lying protestations. Ignorance of life could not excuse—in her own eyes, at least—the readiness to fancy herself in love with such a man—a man of whom she knew so little, and that little so discreditable. That he was more than commonly depraved she had now been made fully aware, but were there not many others to whom she, as a wretched heiress, would prove equally a target to let fly their poisoned arrows at? Her thoughts glanced at Lord Robert Elton. He was a type—perhaps a favourable one, but still a type—of what she must expect. Mr. Twisden might defend him as much as he pleased; he was manifestly a fortune-hunter, and she would be exposed through life to the attacks of such. Therefore she had seen at once that the only chance for her was to go where she should be absolutely unknown. She had declared, in her first bitterness, that she would eschew the society of all men alike. But this she knew was practically impossible; her artistic career would not admit of this. None, however, should be admitted to intimacy; on that she was resolved. And no one, man or woman, should have a suspicion that she had more than a small independence. She had hesitated some time about the second room, but as she meant to see as little as possible of her fellow-boarders, she decided to run the risk of being regarded as recklessly extravagant.

Madame Martineau rented the whole house, with the exception of the ground-floor. "Au Premier" was the antechamber, the public dining and drawing rooms, Madame Martineau's bedroom, the kitchen, and servants' offices. The furniture of the "salon" consisted of a sofa, two fauteuils, and eight chairs covered in brown Utrecht velvet. A marble table was in the middle of the room, on which stood a lamp, the shade of which represented a huge rose made of pink paper. A newspaper or two sometimes lay upon this table. It was the only literature the salon ever saw. On the mantelpiece, which was draped with Utrecht velvet to match the chairs, stood a gilt clock, representing Perseus, with the monster's head in one hand, from which depended huge gilt drops of blood, and a drawn sword in the other. It was currently reported that in the winter, Madame Martineau, whose room adjoined, always undressed by this fire, and hung her garters upon Perseus's sword, where they had more than once been found. The poor lady allowed herself no such luxury as a fire in her own room, saving every centime that she could to administer to the comfort of her daughter, whose husband was a struggling something in the "Ponts et Chaussés."

Elizabeth took to the good-natured little woman on her first interview, and grew quite fond of her as time went on. It was said that she had been very pretty once, and, gossip went on to add, had been greatly admired in the thirties by the Duke of Orleans. It was difficult to believe her old enough for this; she did not look more than fifty-five. But in spite of her jet-black hair, with just a silver thread or two crossing it, her fine even teeth and sparkling black eye. Professor Genron, the oldest pensionnaire, who had known her for twenty years, declared her to be seventy. She dressed with scrupulous neatness, in black, with generally a violet or mauve ribbon, which she thought becoming to her complexion; once a clear olive, now some shades deeper, with a tinge of orange. Many a great hostess might have learned from madame the art of amalgamating heterogeneous materials, and setting guests at their ease. It was her study to make those who met at her table happy—to smooth over the rough places, and soften the asperities of prejudice. She was indulgent as to moral peccadilloes—Madame de Belcour said, with her keepsake smile, "Who should be, if Madame Martineau was not?"—but careful, for the sake of the reputation her pension bore, that no flagrant sinners should flaunt their vices under her very nose. None was admitted without a reference (Elizabeth's had been her banker's Paris correspondent); all bills were paid weekly; no gambling was allowed on the premises. For the rest, what her lodgers did concerned madame in no wise. But she had tender, motherly instincts. Never before had a girl of Elizabeth's age come to her unprotected. Was she really so? The suspicion probably crossed her mind; Elizabeth's independence and extravagance lent it some support. Madame's discrimination, however, very quickly told her that she was at fault, and gradually she began to feel an interest in this odd young person, and to desire that all the other inmates of her establishment should be favourably disposed towards her—which, it must be confessed, they were not at first.

Elizabeth's rooms were on the third floor, to the front, the adjoining one being occupied by a young poet of the latest development, whose erotic verse, strange to relate, had not met with as much public favour as its want of castigation would have led one to expect. Perhaps its obscurity in parts may have accounted for this. In a few literary circles his work had been discussed and—dismissed. One eminent academician had said that perhaps, if it were translated into French, he might understand it. Professor Genron, the oldest of the boarders at Madame Martineau's, frankly declared he had no desire to try. Madame de Belcour, on the other hand, who wrote articles in provincial papers, and regarded herself as a literary woman, affirmed them to be deeply moving. His handsome head had probably something to say to the movement; and as he was a man who laid himself out to commit havoc among the fair sex, his conquests afforded him some consolation for the neglect with which his muse was treated. He was considered to resemble Monsieur Mounet Sully; and he encouraged the likeness, rolling his eyes and tumbling his hair, and having generally a distraught, Byronic aspect. The house was divided against itself as regarded Anatole Doucet; Madame de Belcour heading the faction who held him to be an unappreciated genius; Professor Genron, the caustic old cynic, giving pungent expression to the contempt which some felt for the young man's pretensions.

Among those who defended the poet, possibly less from any conviction of his ability than because of the professor's antagonism, was Dr. Morin, a prominent member of the pension, and attached to a hospital in the neighbourhood. His room was also on the third floor, to the back, adjoining one which was still vacant. Murin was a clever little man—far more genial than Genron, whom he detested, and with so much gas in his composition that he seldom failed to light the table at which he sat. The professor opposite might smile sardonically at his sallies, but the little doctor had the best of it.

The floor above was tenanted by a Russian, named Narishkine, said to be a Nihilist; and a law-student of the Quartier Latin, named Bertrand, who led the chorus of appreciative laughter at table, in response to Genron's and Morin's wit. Madame de Belcour, Madame Clinchaut, Genron, and an American brother and sister, named Baring, occupied the second floor, over the public rooms of the pension.

Of Madame de Belcour nothing was known—not even whether a Monsieur de Belcour existed, or ever did exist. She was handsome, piquante, well dressed; she said smart things, even ill-natured things, with a little languid air, which lent them additional point. Her laced petticoats were the admiration and wonder of all the women; her wonderful little feet the admiration of all the men. She was so well painted that it would have seemed heartless to wish her washed clean; and the aroma of maréchale powder which she enhaled was beneficent to the nostrils of some, loathsome to others. Her adherents were chiefly men, to whom she was always gracious. Her own sex, as a rule, did not love her. Madame Martineau never said ill of any one, but she was known to clear her throat when appealed to as to her handsome pensonnaire. Old Madame Clinchaut detested her; even Miss Baring, who wished to be on good terms with all her fellow-boarders, instinctively avoided the cruel-tougued lady of the languid eyes. There was a freezing surface between them, over which each skated at meal-time; nothing more.

Miss Baring was a plain little woman of nine and twenty, pale, with intelligent eyes, imperfectly apprehended through a pince-nez, a figure like a knife-board, and rusty hair, which did her the injustice of looking as though it had not been brushed. In reality, I believe she brushed her hair almost as much as that unfortunate Eliza Westbrook whom Hogg has immortalized so painfully in his records of Shelley. But a rough-and-tumble arrangement was the one tribute to picturesqueness this cleanly and sensible woman paid to the art which both she and her brother pursued. She was energetic, thorough, unimaginative, with a fund of good sense, and occasionally a touch of sarcasm, altogether the last person in the world one would have expected to choose painting as a profession, still less to have become an "impressionist." Yet "impressionism" held her in its grip, as it did her brother. Unfortunately she was, physically, far from strong. Even in this summer season she had a cough, and was always trying to do twice as much as her strength warranted. Paris was probably the worst place for her in the winter, yet she had been here nearly a year because of her brother, and here she meant to remain.

Alaric Baring, who was two years older, was tall and thin—it might be said angular. He had a chivalrous-looking head, not absolutely handsome, for his cheek-bones were too high, his nose too aquiline, and his pointed beard was of that reddish hue which is chiefly appreciated on canvas. He had often a strange, abstracted look on his face, as though his thoughts were very far away. Madame de Belcour said he represented to her what Don Quixote must have been before—but not very long before—he went mad. This was said after they had been in the pension together for some months, during which she had vainly endeavoured to ensnare him. He did not avoid her; it was for him as though the lady did not exist. He bowed when they met; he answered if she spoke; but half the time at table, though she sat directly opposite to him, he seemed not to see her. It must be confessed he rarely contributed much to the conviviality of the board. He was a tacitarn man at times, and those times when it most behooved him to talk. Elizabeth, who sat between him and Dr. Morin, found the Frenchman much the pleasanter the first night at dinner. But I may as well give her impressions, in her own words, from her diary, written the night of her arrival. She had reason to alter many of her judgments; and when she read the passage long afterwards, she declared that the only character it faithfully portrayed was—her own!

"I feel like one starting on a long voyage, who will be shut up in a ship for months with so many fellow-passengers. I hate the looks of them all—all except Madame Martineau herself. She is an old dear. But the men! I try and think that all men are alike. These certainly are not likely to raise my estimate of manity. Madame Martineau says three of them are very clever in their several ways; but all the Frenchmen here are so egotistical. It was 'moi qui vous parle—moi' from the beginning of dinner till the end. Opposite me sat Professor Genron, who reminded me of the statue of Voltaire in the gallery of the Théâtre Français. The same keen and cunning eyes, the same satirical smile, the head stooped forward, eager, I am sure, to catch all the meannesses of humanity, but with little sympathy for what is noble. Next to him was a Madame de Belcour, whom it amused me to watch. She is like a beautiful cat, so soft, and oh! so sentimental! On her other side was a young poet, a Monsieur Anatole Doucet, whom Madame Martineau says is a genius, as well as remarkable for his beauty. He has large eyes, which he fixes on one, like a cow who sees a train passing. He runs his fingers through his long black locks every few minutes, and he wears his napkin tacked into his shirt-collar! If I were a man, I would sooner pour a spoonful of gravy down my shirt-front than advertise my childish incapacity to eat properly. But all the Frenchmen did the same thing. The one next me was a Dr. Morin, a very small man, with a big bumpy forehead and little glittering eyes, who talked volubly, and made every one laugh—every one except the professor opposite; I observed he never laughed at anything Dr. Morin said. The latter was extremely attentive to me, and tried to make me talk by asking all manner of questions, which I thought forward, and showed him that I thought so by my manner; but it was of no use. I felt that I was a sort of rock over which the torrent poured; it was in no degree stemmed or diverted from its course. I disliked him less than any one else; that is the most I can say. How weary I was, how sick of it all, before dinner was over, and I could escape to my own room! On my left hand sat an American, named Baring, with ginger-coloured hair and beard. I saw nothing but his profile, as he never addressed a word to me, or even turned his head in my direction. He took no part in the general conversation, much of which was lively, to judge by the peals of laughter (for I did not understand a great deal of it); and what with his thinness and his silence, he made me feel as I were sitting next to that proverbial skeleton which has done such long and arduous service since the feast of the Egyptians! His sister was next him—a very plain little woman, badly dressed, with hair that looks as if the chickens had been scratching it. How I hate ugly people! And the two good-looking one here are not attractive to me. No one but Madame de Belcour and Monsieur Doucet has a pretension to good looks. Further down the table sat a jovial young student named Bertrand, who laughed very loud; an old Madame Clinchaut, whose white hairs should claim reverence: but I doubt if I shall revere this old woman. She laughed so indecently at some of the jokes that were fired off, that I felt instinctively it was as well I did not understand them. Madame Martineau laughed, but it was in a deprecatory way. Madame de Belcour morally put her hand before her face, and smiled diabolically between her fingers, like Orcagna's 'Vergoznosa del Campo Santo,' which I remember seeing at Pisa, and which my dear father told me had passed into a proverb. What Miss Baring did I could not see. The only other person present was a Russian, of preternatural ugliness, who swelled the chorus of laughter, and talked incessantly at the other end of the table. I feel a profound distaste for my company. How shall I be able to endure life among such people? My heart sinks as I contemplate the prospect. I have voluntarily elected to pass, at least, many months here, and, were I alone, I could be content; but that I know, at my age, would be impossible in Paris. I am thankful I secured a sitting-room; there I can retire, immediately dinner is over, and be safe from intrusion. I must work—work. It is the only remedy to prevent my thoughts dwelling upon the horrible past; for 'this way madness lies'"

Two days later there was this entry:—

"I am more reconciled to this pension, chiefly owing to a person against whom I felt nothing but antipathy at first! So much for impressions. Miss Baring did not speak to me the first evening, and all yesterday we did not exchange six words. I spent it chiefly hunting for an atelier, and trying to find some class of painting I can join till Monsieur D———'s, which is now closed, reopens. This morning, without further preamble, she walked up to me and said—

"'We are the only two English-speaking women here, and I think ought to make friends.'

"I looked surprised, but murmured something, when she continued—

"'I am a good deal older than you, and perhaps may be of some use to you. I understand you are here to study painting.'

"I told her I wished to become a pupil of Monsieur D———'s, but added that as I had nothing but a rough sketch or two with me to show what I could do, I doubted if the master in question would take me as a pupil.

"He is absent from Paris till October. But I have a studio, and am working at some models till the classes are open again. You had better come and do the same. Then, by the time Monsieur D——— returns, you will have something to show him.'

"The offer was a kind one. She must have wondered why I coloured as I accepted it. It was the recollection of what I had written here about her which made me feel ashamed. Really, when I came to talk to her, she was not so ugly, and had such a pleasant way of speaking—so simple and straightforward; but she has a tiresome cough, and looks ill. She told me she came from Maryland, but had been abroad for many years with her invalid mother, who died last summer. Then she joined her brother in Paris. He had been painting here for two years. He was considered one of the most rising of the young American School. I asked what that was? She replied they were, more or less, 'impressionists.' Her brother's studio was next to hers; he often looked in to see how her work was getting on, and gave her some hints. I asked if she liked the pension. To my surprise, she replied, 'Very much.' I said nothing, but wondered. Then she added, 'You can't expect every one to be nice in a place like this. Some of them are bad enough.' By this time we were in the street. She took me to a colour-man, where I bought all my materials, and then on to her atelier. Her work was curious; I can't say I thought it good. It represented a girl's back, seen apparently through a fog, with very crude green and violeť shadows, which (perhaps my vision is at fault) I do not see in nature. By-and-by the model arrived, and there was the back. Well, the back did not look to me violet. There was plenty of red and yellow in it, but my eyes refused to see the violet and green. I felt depressed. If it should turn out that Monsieur D——— expected his pupils to see nature like that, I knew I couldn't do it. I thought of Titian, of Velasquez. I wondered whether I should not do better to copy certain portraits in the Louvre, which I well remembered. But to work straight from nature was more congenial to me than to try to imitate the work of even the greatest men; so I resolved to make a study of the girl's head—I would leave her back alone. When the model had left, Miss Baring produced three cups and an Etna, and said she was going to make tea. As soon as the water boiled, she left the room, and rapped with her maul-stick at the door of the adjoining atelier. This was an understood signal; a few minutes later her brother appeared. I had only seen his profile either night at dinner. He had not deigned to turn his full face upon me (but then, it is true, I had been rather rude the second evening). I was astonished to find how much less ill-looking he is than I had imagined. And then he certainly has a fine figure, though too thin. His manner is curious. He rarely smiles, and is rather brusque in his utterances, but these leave the impression of having been inevitable. If he must speak, why, then there shall be no beating about the bush. You shall have the truth, or nothing. His voice is pleasant; his steel-grey eyes are pleasant. I recognize a power in the man, which perhaps is more apparent in what he does not say than in what he does. There was no surprise at finding me in his sister's room; she had prepared him, of course, for what she meant to do. He bowed stiffly, and then, glancing at my easel, said—

"'You have begun a study of Lucie's head?' He went up close to it, adding after a minute, 'The ear is not in the right place; the rest is fairly sketched in.'

"'Thank you,' I replied. 'The girl's ear is placed abnormally low.'

"'Not as low as that. But perhaps you don't like criticism? I beg your pardon. I forgot. We are used here to criticize each other's work all round.'

"'You may criticize mine freely,' I said, colouring. 'I am ignorant, and—and I can't see things in other people's way. That is because I have worked so much alone, I suppose.'

"While his sister poured out the tea, he walked up to her easel. I was curious to hear what he would say to the violet-and-green modelling. To my amazement, he said nothing. We sat down to tea. He asked me whether portrait-painting was my ambition? I said I thought any talent I had lay in that line, but that I should not like to paint portraits exclusively.

"'An amateur?' he asked again, looking directly at me with those searching eyes.

"'I am afraid I shall never be good enough to be anything else,' I replied. 'Women seldom rise above mediocrity.'

"It was a stupid speech, and not quite sincere. I have a better opinion of my own ability than my words indicated.

"'There are many clever lady-artists in Paris,' was the rejoinder, given, as I imagined, in a tone of some reproof.

"'Miss Hitch, for instance,' struck in his sister—'one of the American School. She sells her pictures for quite a high figure, and is making a considerable name for herself.'

"'Well, Hatty,' said the brother, balancing his spoon on the edge of his cup, and looking down at it, 'I wouldn't cite Miss Hitch. It is said she has a "ghost"—that her work is not all her own. There are others whose work is certainly genuine;' and he quoted one or two names, which I have forgotten. 'Marie Baschkirtseff had talent. She was above mediocrity.'

"'Was she anything but a clever imitator? I shouldn't care to sit at the feet of any master—Bastien-Lepage, or any one else—and paint things that might be taken, a long way off, for his!' I said scornfully.

"'Youth is generally imitative, in any form of art,' he observed; and this time he did not look at me. 'The best writers, as the best painters and sculptors, have been imitative in the beginning. They caught on to the wings of others, before they found their own strength, and could fly alone. If you want to fly alone at first, you'll tumble.'

"I thought this rude; but I answered, I hope with quiet dignity, 'It is because I know I can't fly alone, that I am going to Monsieur D———'s atelier. If I find that I am no better than a Chinese, I shall give it up.'

"'Ah! You will do right—if you are no better than a Chinese,' he said dryly.

"Miss Hatty laughed. 'We can't all give it up, though we may be no better than Chinese. We must live. After all, an imitation—Corot or Daubigny—may give some benighted persons pleasure?'

"I held my peace. I wondered whether the dear woman's green-and-violet shadows could give any human being pleasure. Her brother did not say much more. Having finished his tea, he rose and left the room, and soon afterwards his sister and I strolled into the Luxembourg Gardens, where we sat and watched the merry, shrill-voiced children playing with their balloons from the 'Bon Marché,' and the white-capped Norman bonnes with their broad streamers hovering over them, in the striped sunshine and shadow of the trees."