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TRILBY

BY THE

SAME AUTHOR.

UNIFORM

WITH THIS EDITION

PETER

I BBETSON.

Illustrated

Impei-ial \6mo. 6s.

London: OSGOOD, McILVAINE & CO.,

45 Albemarle Street, W.

■ IT WAS TRILBY r

[See page 305

T R I L B Y

a i&obel

GEORGE du MAURIER

AUTHOR OF PETER IBBETSON

WITH 121 ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR

' Aux nouvellea que fapporte
Vos beaux yeux vont planer '

London

OSGOOD, MCILVAINE & CO.
45 ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

MDCCCXCV

Helas ! Je sais un chant J'amour
Triste et gai, tour a tour ! '

ILLUSTRATIONS

' It was Trilby ." .

Taffy, alias Talbot Wynne

' The Laird of Cockpen '

The third he was " Little Billee '

' It did one good to look at him '

Among the Old Masters .

' Wistful and Sweet '

The ' Rosemonde ' of Schubert

Trilby's Left Foot .

The Flexible Flageolet .

The Bridge of Arts

' Three Musketeers of the Brush '

Taffy makes the Salad

' The Glory that was Greece ' .

Trilby's Forebears .

Tailpiece ....

' As bad as they make 'em '

' A voice he didn't understand '

' And so, no more '

' " Two Englanders in one day "

' " Himmel ! the roof of your mouth " '

' " Ca fera une fameuse crapule de moins !

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

PAGE

Frontispiece
4
5
6

7
1 1

21
26

37
39
4i
5°
54
57
6i

63
66

75
79

viii TRILB Y

PAGE

Taffy a l'Echelle ! . . . .81

' The Fox and the Crow

. 85

The Latin Quarter ....

Cuisine Bourgeoise en Boheme

' The Soft Eyes ' .

Ilyssus ......

' " Voila l'espayce de horn ker jer svvee ! "

IOI

Tit for Tat

109

The Happy Life ....

1 12

' " Let me go, Taffy " ' .

115

' " Qu'est ce qu'il a done, ce Litrebili ? " '

117

Repentance .....

119

Confession .....

- 123

' All as it used to be '

127

' Twin Gray Stars ' . . .

129

' An Incubus ' . . . .

- 131

The Capitalist and the Swell .

• 137

'"I will not ! I will not ! " ' .

. 145

Dodor in his Glory

• 147

Hotel de la Rochemartel

• 149

Christmas Eve .....

• 155

' " Allons Glycere ! rougis mon verre . .

V, 3

• 157

Souvenir .....

162

' My Sister Dear ' .

. 167

A Ducal French Fighting-cock

169

' " Answer me, Trilby ! " '

. 171

A Cary/Wide .....

172

' " Les glougloux du vin a quat' sous . .

15 1

• 175

' " Is she a Lady, Mr. Wynne ? " ' .

179

' ' ' Fond of him ? Aren't you ? " ' .

. 184

' So like Little Billee ' . . . .

. 1S9

' " I must take the bull by the horns " ' .

. 191

' "Trilby ! where is she ? " ' .

• 195

ILLUSTRATIONS

La Sceur de Litrebili

' He fell a-weeping, quite desperately '

' The sweet melodic phrase ' .

' Sorrowfully, aim in arm '

Demoralisation .....

Fred Walker

Platonic Love ....

' Darlings, old or young '

'The Moon-Dial' ....

The Chairman ....

A Happy Dinner ....

' A-smokin' their poipes and cigyars '

' Bonjour, Suzon ! '

A Human Nightingale

Cup-and-Ball ....

Sweet Alice .....

' May heaven go with her ! ' .

' " So much for Alice, Tray" '

' ' ' You're a thief, sir ! " '

' An atmosphere of bank-notes and gold '

' A little picture of the Thames '

' "Ah ! the beautiful interment, messieurs ! "

' Pauvre Trilby '

'"Je prong!'"

' " Oon pair de gong blong "

Gecko ....

' Au clair de la lune '

' Ouvre-moi ta porte pour l'amour de Dieu ! '

' Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre '

' Aux nouvelles que j'apporte, vos beaux yeux v

Un Impromptu de Chopin

' And the remembrance of them — hand in hand

' " I believe you, my boy ! " ' .

ont pi

eurer

PAGE
197

200

203

207
217
219

222
226
228

23I
235
23S
245
247
252

257
26l
265
276
282
284
289
291

295
299

3°3
306

308

313
316

3'9
325
328

TRILB Y

' Maman duchesse ' .....

The Cut direct ......

' Fetit enfant, j'aimais d'un amour tendre . . . '

' " Vite ! vite ! un Commissaire de Police ! "

' I suppose you do all this kind of thing for mere

Wynne?'

The First Violin loses his Temper

' Hast thou found me, O mine enemy ? ' .

' " Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt ? "

' The last they saw of Svengali ' . . .

' "Three nice clean Englishmen "; .

' Poena pede Claudo '.....

' The Old Studio '

' " Et maintenant dors, ma mignonne ! " ' .

' Taffy was allowed to see Gecko ' .

A Fair Blanchisseuse de fin

A Throne in Bohemia .....

' " Oh, my poor girl ! my poor girl !"

' " Ah, poor mamma ! she was ever so much prettier

' " To sing like that is to pray !" ' .

' " The remembrance of that Palm-Sunday ! " ' .

For Gecko ......

' Out of the mysterious East .

' " Svengali ! . . . Svengali ! . . . Svengali ! . . .

' Tout vient a point, pour qui sait attendre ! '

' I, pete coelestes. . . . '

' Petits bonheurs de contrebande ' .

Enter Gecko .......

' " We took her voice note by note " '

The Nightingale's first Song ....

' ' ' Ich habe geliebt tend gelebet ! " ' .

Tailpiece ........

amusemen

than that ! '

Mr.

PAGE

in
340

344
349

353
359
361

367
372
375
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381
385
388

393

395
401

406
409

414
416
419
421
425
430
434
43s
442

445
447

TRILBY

PART FIRST

' Mimi Pinson est une blonde,

Une blonde que Ton connait ;
Elle n'a qu'une robe au monde,

Landerirette ! et qu'un bonnet ! '

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 north-west. Things were
beginning to look shipshape at last. The big piano, a
semi-grand by Broadwood, had arrived from England by
' the Little Quickness ' {la Petite Vitesse, as the goods
trains are called in France), and lay, freshly tuned, along-
side the eastern wall ; on the wall opposite 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. The walls were of the usual dull red, relieved by
plaster casts of arms and legs and hands and feet ; and
Dante's mask, and Michael Angelo's alto-rilievo of Leda
and the swan, and a centaur and Lapith from the Elgin
Marbles — on none of these had the dust as yet had time
to settle.

TRILBY

There were also studies in oil from the nude ; copies
of Titian, Rembrandt, Velasquez, 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, terra-cotta, imitation
bronze : a little Theseus, a little Venus of Milo, a little
discobolus ; a little flayed man threatening high heaven
(an act that seemed almost pardonable 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 pediment of the
Parthenon, earless also ; and the bust of Clytie, with her
beautiful low brow, her sweet wan gaze, and the ineffable
forward shrug of her dear shoulders that makes her bosom
as a nest, a rest, a pillow, a refuge — the likeness of a
thing to be loved and desired for ever, and sought for and
wrought for and fought for by generation 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 scrupul-
ously clean. On the floor, which had been stained and
waxed at considerable cost, lay two cheetah-skins and a
large Persian praying-rug. One half of it, however (under
the trapeze and at the end farthest from the window,
beyond the model-throne), was covered with coarse
matting, that one might fence or box without slipping

TRILBY 3

down and splitting one's self in two, or fall without break-
ing 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 filled up as time wore on with endless personal
nick-nacks, 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 immense 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 Yorkshireman,
by the way, called Taffy (and also the Man of Blood,
because he was supposed to be distantly related 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 Balaklava

TRILB V

but for a sprained ankle (caught playing leapfrog 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 irresistible 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 moustache, he
wore an immense pair of droop-
ing auburn whiskers, of the
kind that used to be called
Piccadilly weepers, and were
afterwards affected by Mr.
Sothern 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 beauti-
ful 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 WVNNE

' 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

TRILBY

simple attire at his easel, painting at a lifelike little
picture of a Spanish toreador serenading a lady of high
degree (in broad daylight).
He had never been to Spain,
but he had a complete tore-
ador'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 accent,
he began to declaim :

' A street there is in Paris famous

For which no rhyme our language yields ;

Roo Nerve day Petty Shong its name is —
The New Street of the Little Fields. . . .'

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
parents (good, pious people in Dundee) had intended that
he should be a solicitor, as his father and grandfather had
been before him. And here he was in Paris famous,
painting toreadors, and spouting the ' Ballad of the
Bouillabaisse,' as he would often do out of sheer lightness

THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN'

TRILBY

of heart — much oftener, indeed, than he would say his
prayers.

Kneeling on the divan, with his elbow on the window-
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 savoury saveloy, in which there was evidence
of much garlic. He ate with great relish, for he was very
hungry ; he had been all the morning at Carrel's studio,
drawing from the life.

Little Billee was small and slender, about twenty or
twenty-one, and had a straight white forehead veined

with blue, large dark blue eyes, deli-
cate, regular features, 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 Jewish ancestor — just a tinge
of that strong, sturdy, irrepressible,
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 admixture of which no sherry can go
round the world and keep its flavour intact ; or like the

' THE THIRD HE WAS
" LITTLE BILLEE " '

TRILB Y

famous bulldog 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
veracious persons that

dog- fanciers -

-the most

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. Touit pis pour
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 ' jj
which were being pulled
down, no doubt lest they
should fall of their own
sweet will. In the gaps
between he would see
discoloured, old, cracked,
dingy walls, with mys-
terious windows and

rusty iron balconies of great antiquity — sights that set him
dreaming dreams of mediaeval French love and wicked-
ness and crime, bygone mysteries of Paris !

One gap went right through the block, and gave him

IT DID ONE GOOD TO LUOK AT HIM

8 TRILB Y

a glimpse of the river, the ' CiteV and the ominous old
Morgue ; a little to the right rose the gray towers of
Notre Dame de Paris into the checkered April sky.
Indeed, the top of nearly all Paris lay before him, with a
little stretch of the imagination on his part ; and he
gazed with a sense of novelty, 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 with,
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 was the thing itself at last, and he,
he himself, ipsissimus, in the very heart of it, to live there
and learn there as long as he liked, and make himself the
great artist he 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.

He felt he had never known happiness like this, never
even dreamed its possibility. And yet his life had been
a happy one. He was 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 with his mother
and sister, who now lived in Devonshire on somewhat
straitened means. His father, who was dead, had been
a clerk in the Treasury.

He and his two friends, Taffy and the Laird, had
taken this studio together. The Laird slept there, in a

TRILBY

small bedroom off the studio. Taffy had a bedroom at
the Hotel de Seine, in the street of that name. Little
Billee lodged at the Hotel Corneille, in the Place de
l'Odeon.

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
perfect in his eyes ; they were his guides and philosophers
as well as his chums. On the other hand, Taffy 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
somewhat 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
more than he ever knew, for they recognised in him a
quickness, a keenness, a delicacy of perception, in matters
of form and colour, 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

io TRILBY

him very much indeed. Not but what Little Billee had
his faults. For instance, he didn't interest himself very
warmly in other people's pictures. He didn't seem to
care for the 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, Rubens,
Veronese, or Leonardo. He looked at the people who
looked at the pictures, instead of at the pictures them-
selves ; 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 Louvre windows,
where there was much to be seen : more Paris, for
instance — Paris, 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 after-
wards made the most delightfully funny little pen-and-ink
sketches of them, saying all these beautiful things (which
he sent to his mother and sister at home) ; so lifelike, so
real, that you could almost hear the beautiful things they
said ; so beautifully drawn that you felt the old masters
couldn't have drawn them better themselves ; and so
irresistibly droll that you felt that the old masters could

AMONG THE OLD MASTERS

12 TRILBY

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 Bouillabaisse '
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 biret 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 shoulders, in that musician-
like 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
moustache, 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 swarthy young man — a
gypsy, possibly — much pitted with the smallpox, and also
very shabby. He had large, soft, affectionate brown eyes,
like a King Charles spaniel. 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 playing in the street.

' Ponchour, mes enfants,' said Svengali. ' Che vous

TRILBY 13

amene mon ami Checko, qui choue du fiolon gomme tin
anche ! '

Little Billee, who adored all ' sweet musicianers,'
jumped up and made Gecko as warmly welcome as he
could in his early French.

' Ha ! le biano ! ' exclaimed Svengali, flinging his red
beret on it, and his cloak on the ground. ' Ch'espere qu'il
est pon, et pien t'accord ! '

And sitting down on the music-stool, he ran up and
down 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 to burst-
ing with suppressed emotion and delight. He had never
heard any music of Chopin's before, nothing but British
provincial home-made music— melodies with variations,
' Annie Laurie,' ' The Last Rose of Summer,' ' The Blue
Bells of Scotland ' ; innocent little motherly and sisterly
tinklings, invented to set the company 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 circumstances.

Then Svengali and Gecko made music together,
divinely. Little fragmentary things, sometimes consisting
of but 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,

14 TRILBY

things little known out of eastern Europe in the fifties of
this century, till the Laird and Taffy 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 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 white 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 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 com-
plexion 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.

WISTFUL AND SWEET '

1 6 TRILBY

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 privet-
like 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 cheeks were beautifully
modelled. She would have made a singularly handsome
boy.

As the creature looked round at the assembled
company 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, dropping 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 ? Trilby, 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

TRILBY 17

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." I'm
posing for Durien the sculptor, on the next floor. I pose
to him for the altogether.'

' The altogether ? ' asked Little Billee.

' Yes — l'e?isevible, 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 colour, all made up of delicate
lengths and subtly-modulated curves and noble straight-
nesses 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 colours of almost every bit of man,
woman, or child should be (and so seldom are), was quite
bewildered to find 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 gro-
tesque in its mixed attire of military overcoat and female
petticoat, and nothing else !

1 8 TRILBY

Poor Trilby !

The shape of those lovely slender feet (that were
neither large nor small), facsimiled in dusty pale plaster
of Paris, survives on the shelves and walls of many a
studio throughout the world, and many a 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
civilised 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
love's young dream, and almost break the heart.

And all for the sake of a high heel and a ridiculously-
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, indura-
tions, and discolorations — all those grewsome boot-begotten
abominations which have made it so generally unpopular
— the sudden sight of it, uncovered, comes as a very rare
and singularly pleasing surprise to the eye that has
learned how to see !

TRILBY 19

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
supreme development ; the lordship of man over beast,
the lordship of man over man, the lordship of woman
over all !

En voila de V eloquence — a propos de bo ties !

Trilby had respected Mother Nature's special gift to
herself — had never worn a leather boot or shoe, had
always taken as much care of her feet as many a fine
lady 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
create 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, made herself 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 ' Rosemonde,' and flashed
a pair of languishing black eyes at her with intent to
kill.

But she didn't even look his way. She looked at
Little 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 : ' Mai'e, ai'e !
c'est rudement bien tape, c'te musique-la ! Seulement,
c'est pas gai, vous savez ! Comment q'ca s'appelle ? '

2o TRILB Y

' It is called the " Rosemonde " of Schubert, mate-
moiselle,' replied Svengali. (I will translate.)

' And what's that — Rosemonde ? ' said she.

' Rosemonde was a princess of Cyprus, matemoiselle,
and Cyprus is an island.'

' Ah, and Schubert, then — where's that ? '

' Schubert is not an island, matemoiselle. 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 a 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, matemoiselle.'

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.'

as
k
n
&
W
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&.
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(4

22 TRILBY

< 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, with 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 performance 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 were 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 of
' Messieurs les etudiants.' If so, it was a capital piece
of impromptu tit -for -tat admirably acted, and a very

TRILBY 23

ugly gleam yellowed the tawny black of Svengali'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's 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. 1
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 ?
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 big.
He gave me his word of honour. 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 Francaise, nor yet that of the
Faubourg St. Germain, nor yet that of the shop, or the
pavement. It was quaint and expressive — ' funny with-
out being vulgar.'

' Barpleu ! he was right, Litolff,' said Svengali. ' I

24 TRILBY

assure you, matemoiselle, that I have never heard a voice
that can equal yours ; you have a talent quite excep-
tional.'

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 Monsieur 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, I've got to go back. Life ain't all beer
and skittles, and more's the pity ; but what's the odds, so
long as you're happy?'

On her way out she stopped before Taffy's picture — a
chiffonnier with his lantern, bending over a dust- heap.
For Taffy was, or thought himself, a passionate realist in
those days. He has changed, 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,
male ai'e ! '

She went to the door and paused, looking round
benignly. ' What nice teeth you've all three got ! That's
because your Englishmen, I suppose, and clean them
twice a day. I do too. Trilby O'Ferrall, that's my

TRILB V 25

name, 48 Rue des Pousse-Cailloux ! — pose pour l'ensemble,
quand ca l'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 etching,
in its sense of beauty, in its quick seizing of a peculiar
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 barytone.

It was solely in order that Little Billee should have
opportunities of practising this graceful accomplishment
of his, for his own and his friends' delectation, 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, Svengali
exclaimed: 'Mais c'est tout -a- fait chentil ! Allons,
Gecko, chouez-nous ca ! '

TRILBY S LEFT FOOT

TRILBY 27

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 battledored and shuttle-
cocked 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 schoolmaster so kind and so true, and his long-dead
schoolmates, and the rustic porch and the mill, and the
slab of granite so gray,

' And the dear little nook
By the clear running brook,'

were all magnified into a strange, almost holy poetic
dignity and splendour 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

28 TRILBY

improvisation to a climax and a close. ' C'est mon £lefe !
che le fais chanter sur son fiolon, c'est comme si c'etait
mot 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 judiciously 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 Honorine ; ' 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 Honorine !
Gecko, play me a little accompaniment in pizzicato.'

And he pulled out of his pocket a kind of little
flexible 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 adoring
eyes fixed in reverence on his master.

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 was little more — such thrilling, vibrating, piercing
tenderness, now loud and full, a shrill scream of aneuish.
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 !

o
a

■«!

>-3
fa

J
fa

3o TRILB V

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 spilled 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 — pour se
donner line 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 evan-
escence, 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 betite
Honorine to sing ; that is how I teach Gecko to play ;
that is how I teach " il bcl canto" \ It was lost, the bel
canto — but I found it, in a dream — I, and nobody else —
I — Svengali — 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.

TRILBY 31

Then it was the Laird's turn, and he came off badly
too ; so then Taffy took up the foil, and redeemed the
honour of Great Britain, as became a British hussar and a
Man of Blood. For Taffy, by long and assiduous practice
in the best school in Paris (and also by virtue of his
native aptitudes), was a match for any maitre d'armcs in
the whole French army, and Svengali 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 athletic 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 forget his fresh
vision of it, which was still to him as the thing itself — an
absolute reality, born of a mere glance, a mere chance — a
happy caprice !

Durien came in and looked over his shoulder, and
exclaimed : ' Tiens ! le pied de Trilby ! vous avez fait ca
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 ca, 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 touchez plus ! '

And Little Billee was pleased, and touched it no

32 TRILBY

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 off to
dine at the Restaurant 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 savoury, lentils, red and white beans,
meat so dressed and sauced and seasoned that you didn't
know whether it was beef or mutton — flesh, fowl, or good
red herring — or even bad, for that matter — nor very
greatly cared.

And just the same lettuce, radishes, and cheese of
Gruyere or Brie as you got at the Trois Freres Provencaux
(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,
workmen and blanchisseuses 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
indeed. And the evening was innocently wound up
with billiards, cards, or dominoes at the Cafe du Luxem-
bourg opposite ; or at the Theatre du Luxembourg, in
the Rue de Madame, to see funny farces with screamingly
droll Englishmen in them ; or, still better, at the Jardin
Bullier (la Closerie des Lilas), to see me students dance

TRILB Y

the cancan, or try and dance it yourself, which is not so
easy as it seems ; or, best of all, at the Theatre de
l'Odeon, to see some piece of the classical repertoire.

Or, if it were not only fine, but a Saturday afternoon
into the bargain, the Laird would put on a necktie and a
few other necessary things, and the three friends would
walk arm-in-arm to Taffy's hotel in the Rue de Seine,
and wait outside till he had made himself as presentable
as the Laird, which did not take very long. And then

<WUIk'

THE BRIDGE OF ARTS

(Little Billee was always
presentable) they would,
arm-in-arm, the huge
Taffy in the middle, de-
scend 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

34 TRILBY

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 glowing sky
and all it glowed upon — the corner of the Tuileries and
the Louvre, the many bridges, the Chamber of Deputies,
the golden river narrowing its perspective and broadening
its bed as it went flowing and winding on its way between
Passy and Grenelle to St. Cloud, to Rouen, to the Havre,
to England perhaps — 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 gaily, across the
courtyard of the Louvre, through gilded gates well
guarded by reckless imperial Zouaves, up the arcaded
Rue de Rivoli as far as the Rue Castiglione, where they
would stare with greedy eyes at the window of the great
corner pastry-cook, and marvel at the beautiful assort-
ment of bonbons, pralines, dragees, marrons glaces —
saccharine, crystalline substances of all kinds and colours,
as charming to look at as an illumination ; 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-egg, of
enchanting hue, enshrined like costly jewels in caskets of

TRILBY 35

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 Allee
des Feuillants, and up to the Place de la Concorde — to
gaze, but quite without base envy, at the smart people
coming back from the Bois de Boulogne. For even in
Paris ' carnage people ' have a way of looking 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 every afternoon had hypnotised
them into silence, idiocy, and melancholia.

And our three musketeers of the brush would specu-
late on the vanity of wealth and rank and fashion ; on
the satiety that follows in the wake of self-indulgence and
overtakes it ; on the weariness of the pleasures that be-
come 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 intolerable ;
so they would betake themselves to an English eating-
house in the Rue de la Madeleine (on the left-hand side
near the top), where they would renovate their strength
and their patriotism on British beef and beer, and house-
hold bread, and bracing, biting, stinging yellow mustard,
and heroic horseradish, and noble apple-pie, and Cheshire
cheese ; and get through as much of these in an hour or
so as they could for talking, talking, talking ; such happy
talk ! as full of sanguine hope and enthusiasm, of cock-
sure commendation or condemnation of all painters, dead
or alive, of modest but firm belief in themselves and each

36 TRILBY

other, as a Paris Easter-egg is full of sweets and pleasant-
ness (for the young).

And then a stroll on the crowded, well -lighted
boulevards, and a bock at the cafe there, at a little three-
legged marble table right out on the genial asphalt side
pavement, still talking nineteen to the dozen.

Then home by dark, old, silent streets and some
deserted bridge to their beloved Latin Quarter, the
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 for ever talking, talking,
talking. . . .

The Laird and Little Billee would see Taffy safe to
the door of his hotel garni in the Rue de Seine, where
they would find much to say to each other before they
said good -night — so much that Taffy and Little Billee
would see the Laird safe to his door, in the Place St.
Anatole des Arts. And then a discussion would arise
between Taffy and the Laird on the immortality of the
soul, let us say, or the exact meaning 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 l'Odeon, 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-coloured, with its shiny slate roofs
under skies that were ashen and sober, and the wild west

"three musketeers of the brush"

38 TRILB Y

wind made woeful 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 un-
inviting (even to three healthy-minded young Britons),
they would resolve to dine and spend a happy evening at
home.

Little Billee, taking with him three francs (or even
four), would dive into back streets and buy a yard or so
of crusty new bread, well burned on the fiat 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 garlic, which would be
rubbed on a crust of bread to flavour things with.

Taffy would lay the cloth English-wise, 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 savoury Scotch mess so cunningly
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

TRILBY

Vieille des Trois Mauvais Ladres (the old street of the three
bad lepers), and the damp logs hissed and crackled in the
stove !

What jolly talk into the small hours ! Thackeray and
Dickens again, and Tenny-
son and Byron (who was
' not deed yet ' in those
days) ; and Titian and
Velasquez, and young Millais
and Holman Hunt (just 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 Rome. . . .

Good, honest, innocent,
artless prattle- — not of the
wisest, perhaps, nor redolent
of the very highest culture
(which, by the way, can mar
as well as make), nor lead-
ing to any very practical
result ; but quite pathetically
sweet from the sincerity and
fervour of its convictions, a
profound belief in their im-
portance, 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 impecuniosity, and

TAFFY MAKES THE SALAD

40 TRILBY

youth and hope and health and strength and freedom —
with all Paris for a playground, and its dear old un-
regenerate 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 possibility.

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 below ! ' was
sounded at the door, and she appeared — clothed this time
and in her right mind, as it seemed : a tall, straight,
flat-backed, square-shouldered, deep-chested, full-bosomed
young grisette, in a snowy frilled cap, a neat black gown
and white apron, pretty faded, well-darned brown stock-
ings, and well-worn, soft, gray, square-toed slippers of
list, without heels and originally shapeless ; but which her
feet, uncompromising and inexorable as boot-trees, had
ennobled into everlasting classic shapeliness, and stamped
with an unforgettable 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 intuitive insight he divined
far down beneath the shining 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

W
W
OS

E-i

42 TR1LB Y

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
nervous 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 hier soir ? Avons-nous assez rigole chez Mathieu,
hein ? Crenom d'un nom, quelle noce ! Via une
cremaillere qui peut se vanter d'etre diantrement bien
pendue, j'espere ! Et la petite sante, c' matin ? '

' He, he ! mon vieux,' answered Trilby. ' ^a boulotte,
apparemment ! Et toi ? et Victorine ? Comment qu'a s'
porte a c't'heure ? Elle avait un fier coup d'chasselas !
c'est-y jobard, hein ? de s' fich 'paf comme ca d'vant 1'
monde ! Tiens, v'la, Gontran ! ca marche-t-y, Gontran,
Zouzou d' mon cceur ? '

' Comme sur des roulettes, ma biche ! ' said Gontran, alias
l'Zouzou — -a corporal in the Zouaves. ' Mais tu t'es done
mise chiffonniere, a present ? T'as fait banque-route ? '

(For Trilby had a chiffonnier'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 bien vu ! Dans la deche jusqu'aux
omoplates, mon pauv* caporal-sous-off ! nom d'un canon
— faut bien vivre, s' pas ? '

Little Billee's heart-sluices had closed during this
interchange of courtesies. He felt it to be of a very

TRILB Y 43

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 tot, and he knew enough French to
know that this implied a great familiarity, 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 Victorine, who had very foolishly taken a drop
too much on that occasion, Trilby's mock regrets 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 amenities (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 indignant.

' Good -afternoon to you, Mr. Taffy,' said Trilby, in
English. ' I've brought you 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 Martin,
chiffonnier en gros et en detail, grand officier de la
Legion d'Honneur, membre de l'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 rag-picker ? ' 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 you'll put it on I'll fasten it for you, and show

44 TRILBY

you how to hold the lantern and handle the pick. You
may come to it yourself some day, you know. II ne faut
jurer de rien ! Pere Martin will pose for you in person,
if you like. He's generally 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 :
Rembrandts from two francs fifty upwards. They've got
a little grandson — a love of a child. I'm his godmother.
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 maintenant, le temps d'absorber une fine de
fin sec [a cigarette] et je m' la brise [I'm off]. On
m'attend a l'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
Verdi's new opera (which she had never heard), the
impressiveness of Notre Dame, and Victor Hugo's
beautiful romance (which she had never read), the
mysterious charm of Leonardo da Vinci's Lisa Gioconda's
smile (which she had never seen) — by all of which she
was no doubt rather tickled and a little embarrassed,
perhaps also a little touched.

Taffy brought her a cup of coffee, and conversed with

TRILB Y 45

her in polite formal French very well and carefully pro-
nounced ; 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 neighbouring 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 bonnets,
some of whom knew Trilby, and thee'd and thou'd with
familiar and friendly affection, while others mademoiselle'd
her with distant politeness, and were mademoiselle'd and
madame'd back again. ' Absolument comme a l'Ambas-
sade d'Autriche,' as Trilby observed 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 splendour of
his long, lithe, youthful strength, was a far gainlier sight
than Svengali at the keyboard 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 ?'

Then enter Durien the sculptor, who had been
presented with a baignoire at the Porte St. Martin to see

46 TRILB Y

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 dulness,
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
beautiful 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 Sunday 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 percep-
tions were not of form and colour secrets only, but strove
to pierce the veil of deeper mysteries in impetuous and
dogmatic boyish scorn of all received interpretations.
For he flattered himself that he possessed the philosophi-
cal and scientific mind, and piqued himself on thinking
clearly, and was intolerant of human inconsistency.

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

TRILB Y 47

mysteries of life and death, and was for ever propounding
unanswerable arguments against the Christian belief,
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 foundation
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, whose 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 in-
offensive 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

48 TR1LB Y

only stick to it through life in despite of life's experience.
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. In medio tutissimus ibis !

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-aesthetic eye, too much
enamoured of mere form !

Reversing the usual process, he had idealised 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 than 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 Californian heroes and heroines who,
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

TRILBY 49

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 my 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 bassinette.

Fate has willed it otherwise.

Would indeed that I could duly express poor Trilby's
one shortcoming in some not too familiar medium — in
Latin or Greek, let us say — lest the Young Person (in
this ubiquitousness of hers, for which Heaven 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 beautiful plea I can think of. It was once used in
extenuation and condonation 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 —

' Quia multum amavit ! '

Whether it be an aggravation of her misdeeds or an

extenuating circumstance, no
pressure of want, no tempta-
1 tions of greed or vanity, had
ever been factors in urging
\ Trilby on her downward
■ career after her first false step
|V;) in that direction — the result
A.];' of ignorance, bad advice
i\\ Vy/i (from her mother, of all people
in the world), and base be-
trayal. She might have lived
in guilty splendour 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.

TRILBY S FOREBEARS

TRILBY 51

Sheer gaiety of heart and genial good-fellowship, the
difficulty of saying nay to earnest pleading. She was
bonne camarade et bonne fille before everything. Though
her heart was not large enough to harbour more than one
light love at a time (even in that Latin Quarter of
genially capacious hearts), it had room for many warm
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 virginal
heart, so little did she know of love's heartaches 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 Bohemians of the brush or chisel had found,
at some cost to their vanity and self-esteem ; perhaps
even to a deeper feeling — who knows ?

Trilby's father, as she had said, had been a gentleman,
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 them, 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 tam-o'-shantered barmaid at the
Montagnards Ecossais, in the Rue du Paradis Poisson-

52 TRILBY

niere (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 support
himself, for ten or fifteen years. Trilby was born to
them, and was dragged up in some way — a la grace de
Dicu !

Patrick O'Ferrall soon taught his wife to drown all
care and responsibility 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 blanchisseuse 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.

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 inexpensive 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
favourite in the Rue du Puits d'Amour and its humble
neighbourhood.

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 almost grown to
believe he really belonged to them.

And almost 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.

TRILBY 53

He might have had a worse home.

La mere Martin was pious, or pretended to be ; le
pere Martin was the reverse. But they were equally
good for their kind, and though coarse and ignorant 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 compensated by now
for the trials and struggles of their sordid earthly
life.

So much for Trilby's parentage.

And as she sat and wept at Madame Doche's im-
personation of La Dame aux Camillas (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 adversary
to breathe, now the beautiful sensitive face of Little
Billee and his deferential courtesy.

And during the entr'actes her heart went out in friend-
ship 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, mees, your tea is getting cold ; let me

tell that good old of a Jules to bring you another

cup.'

TRILBY

And so forth, till time and experience taught him
better. It is perhaps well for him that his first ex-
periments in conversational French were made in the
unconventional circle of the Place St. Anatole des Arts.

PART SECOND

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

Nobody knew exactly how Svengali lived, and very few
knew where (or why). He occupied a roomy dilapidated
garret, au sivihne, in the Rue Tire-Liard, with a truckle-
bed and a pianoforte 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 would either fawn or bully,
and could be grossly impertinent. He had a kind of
cynical humour, 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 egotism and conceit
were not to be borne ; and then he was both tawdry and
dirty in his person ; more greasily, mattedly unkempt than
even a really successful pianist has any right to be even in
the best society.

He was not a nice man, and there was no pathos in
his poverty — a poverty that was not honourable, and
need not have existed at all ; for he was constantly
receiving supplies from his own people in Austria — his

56 TRILBY

old father and mother, his sisters, his cousins, and his
aunts, hard-working, frugal folk of whom he was the pride
and the darling.

lie 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 hearing
Svengali give utterance to their music, which of course
they could not utter themselves.

1 lis safent tous un peu toucher du biano, mais pas
grand'ehose ! '

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 played, 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.

TRILB Y

So in his head he went for ever singing, singing,
singing, 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-parlour, the guard-room,
the schoolroom, the pothouse, the slum. There was
nothing so humble, so base even, but what 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 flageolet.

Svengali playing Chopin on the
pianoforte, even (or especially)
Svengali playing ' Ben Bolt ' on
that penny whistle of his, was as
one of the heavenly 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
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 accompani-

AS BAD AS THEY MAKE EM

58 TRILB V

ments 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 attention to himself.
He also gave a few music lessons (not at ladies' schools,
let us hope), for which he was not well paid, presumably,
since he was always without a sou, always borrowing
money, that he never paid back, and exhausting the
pockets and the patience 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
Ramoneurs, 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 Ouartier 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 gu'il y a de plus ccmaille.

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

TRILB V 59

the figure'— an effect, by the way, that was always
produced upon him by all specially attractive figure
models of the gentler sex, for he had a reverence 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 ' Ten 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 received 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 disenchant-
ment and vicarious shame.

6o TRILB Y

Svengali had heard her sing at the Brasserie des
Porcherons in the Rue du Crapaud- volant, 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 lordly, godlike, shawm -playing, cymbal -banging 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
1 Rose of Sharon,' his ' pearl of Pabylon,' his ' cazelle-eyed
liddle Cherusalem skylark ' — and promised her that she
should be the queen of the nightingales.

But before he could teach her anything he had to
unteach her all she knew ; her breathing, the production
of her voice, its emission — everything was wrong. She
worked indefatigably to please him, and soon succeeded
in forgetting all the pretty little sympathetic 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 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 didn't understand, for once), a thing of mere
youth and health and bloom and high spirits — like her
beauty, such as it was — beauti du diable, beaute damnee.

" A VOICE HE DIDN T UNDERSTAND

62 TRILBY

She did her very best, and practised all she could in
this new way, and sang herself hoarse : she scarcely ate or
slept for practising. He grew harsh and impatient 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
demoralised ; her attempts to vocalise grew almost as dis-
tressing as Trilby's. So that he lost his temper completely,
and called her terrible names, and pinched and punched
her with his big bony hands till she wept worse than
Niobe, and borrowed money of her — five-franc pieces, even
francs and demifrancs — which he never paid her back ; and
browbeat and bullied and bully-ragged 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, with 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 !

' For where did all those five-franc pieces come from —
kein ? — 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 — hein ? '

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

TRILB Y

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 basin,
and twisting the corner of his pocket-handkerchief round
his dirty forefinger, he delicately dipped it, and removed the

AND SO, NO MORE

64 TRILB V

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 dis-
liked by his English friends). Then he put on his beret
and his velveteen cloak, and went forth into the sunny
streets, with a sense of the fragrance and freedom and
pleasantness 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.

' Himmel ! Why the devil are you doing that ? ' he
asked, in his German-Hebrew-French.

'Doing what?' 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 ! '

1 Ach ! And how the devil did you get yourself dirty,
then ? '

To this Little Billee found no immediate answer, and
went on with his ablutions after the hissing, splashing,
energetic fashion of Englishmen ; and Svengali laughed
loud and long at the spectacle of a little Englishman
trying to get himself clean — tdchant de se nettoyer !

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

Content with this, /ante de mieux, the German asked

TRILB Y 65

him when he would be trying to get himself clean again,
as he would much like to come and see him do it.

' Demang mattang, a votre sairveece ! ' said Little
Billee, with a courteous bow.

' What ! ! Monday too ! ! Gott in Himmel ! you try
to get yourself clean every day ? '

And he laughed himself out of the room, out of the
house, out of the Place de l'Odeon — 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 also, and fell to laughing with such convulsive
laughter, such twistings, screwings, and doublings of him-
self 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 of
pig that you are ? Do you want to be pitched out of that
window into the Rue de Seine ? You filthy black Hebrew
sweep ! Just you wait a bit ; I'll 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.

' Donnerwetter ! ' 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,
verflncJiter kerl of an Englander ! '

Then he paused for thought.

' Now 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 themselves clean !

'"TWO ENGLANDERS IN ONE DAY"

TRILB Y 67

He rather flattered himself he had 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 ? Besides, so long as
you are clean enough to suit your kind, to be any cleaner
would be priggish and pedantic, and get you disliked.

Just as Svengali was about to knock at the Laird's
door, Trilby came downstairs from Durien's, very 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 eyes, a
thing she was subject to ; that the pain was maddening,
and generally lasted twenty-four hours.

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

The Laird's ablutions (if he had indulged in any that
morning) 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 whisky 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 little 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.

68 TRILB Y

' Oh ! presque plus du tout, monsieur — c'est le cicl.'

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.

' 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 gratitude
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 with a hiss.

' Now 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, I 2 Rue Tire-
Liard, au sixieme au-dessus de l'entresol, and I will cure
you and take your pain myself '

' Oh, you are too good ! ' and in her high spirits she

HIMMKL ! THE ROOF OF YOl'R MOUTH1

7o TR1LB Y

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.

1 What is that you say, matemoiselle ? '

' Oh, it's what the milkmen say in England.

'It is a wonderful cry, matemoiselle — wunderschon !
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 ! It is good
production — c'est un cri du cceur ! '

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 honour.'

'Who is it, monsieur — yourself?'

' Ach, no, matemoiselle ; I have not that privilege. 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 Rotonde, where the coffee
isn't very good, although it costs three sous a cup dearer
than at the Cafe Larsouille in the Rue Flamberge-au-
Vent. When he dies they will search all France for
another, and then all Germany, where the good big
waiters come from — and the cannons — but they will not
find him, and the Cafe de la Rotonde will be bankrupt
— unless you will consent to take his place. Will you
permit that I shall look into your mouth, matemoiselle ? '

TRILB V

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 entrance 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 peon)',
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

' " Votre coeur est un luth suspendu !

Aussitot qu'on le touche, il resonne. ..."

What a pity you have not also the musical organisation ! '
' 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 :
1 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, mate ai'e ! ' exclaimed Trilby ; ' you do use lovely
language ! '

72 TRILBY

' 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 himself 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 chaumiere ! " . . . because it is
gayer ! And you shall see nothing, hear nothing, think of
nothing but Svengali, Svengali, Svc?igali !

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 of the room,
without even borrowing his five-franc piece.

' He's a rum 'un, ain't he ? ' said Trilby. ' He reminds
me of a big 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 than 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
mesmerised you ; that's what it is — mesmerism ! I've
often heard of it, but never seen it done before. They
get you into their power, and 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 impressed him
still more. He loomed quite prophetic.

TRILB V 73

Cold shivers went down Trilby's back as she listened.
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 mention 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 repulsion grew together.

And ' Svengali, Svengali, Svengali ! ' went ringing 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, Svengali!'

At last she asked Durien if he knew him.

1 Parbleu ! Si je connais Svengali ! '

' Ou'est-ce que t'en penses ? '

' Ouand il sera mort, qa. fera une fameuse crapule de
moins ! '

'CHEZ CARREL.'

Carrel's atelier (or painting-school) was in the Rue
Notre Dame des Potirons St. Michel, at the end of a large
courtyard, 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 forty art students drew and
painted from the nude model every day but Sunday from
eight till twelve, and for two hours in the afternoon,
except on Saturdays, when the afternoon was devoted to
much-needed Augean sweepings and cleanings.

74 77?//.;? V

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 caricatures — ■
des charges — in charcoal and white chalk ; and also the
scrapings of many palettes — a polychromous 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 foot-
ing— your bienvenue — 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 gentleman
(duly decorated with the red rosette of the Legion of
Honour), came for two or three hours and went the
round, spending a few minutes at each drawing-board or
easel — ten or even twelve when the pupil was an in-
dustrious 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 was 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 anything else, and were
fixtures at Carrel's for life.

gA FERA UNE FAMEUSE CRAPULE
DE MOINS " '

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 foot-
steps 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 industrious
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 was

76 TRILB Y

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
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 language altogether from the
formal and polite language he had been at such pains
to acquire. Ollendorff does not cater for the Ouartier
Latin. Acting on Taffy's advice — for Taffy had
worked under Carrel — Little Billee handed sixty francs
to the massier for his bienvenue — a lordly sum — and
this liberality made a most favourable impression, and
went far to destroy any little prejudice that might have
been caused by the daintiness of his dress, the clean-
liness of his person, and the politeness of his manners.
A place was assigned to him, and an easel and a
board ; for he elected to stand at his work and 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

TRILB Y 77

rather two, for he was ambidextrous, and could use both
with equal skill ; and a few months' practice at a London
life school had quite cured him of that purposeless inde-
cision of touch which often characterises the prentice hand
for years of apprenticeship, and remains 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 recognise
at a glance. His touch on either canvas or paper was like
Svengali's on the keyboard — unique.

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

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

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

Then, after a pause :

' Av you seen my fahzere's ole 'at ? '

' I av not seen your fahzere's ole 'at ! '

Presently another said, ' Je trouve qu'il a une jolie
tete, 1' Anglais.'

But I will put it all into English :

' I find that he has a pretty head — the Englishman !
What say you, Barizel ? '

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

1 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 dominoes ? '
Because he's an Englishman ! '

' Yes ; but why has he got a back without any bend in

78 TRILB Y

it, as if he'd swallowed the Colon ne Vendome 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 ? '

' I should like to know if the Englishman says his
prayers before going to bed.'

1 Ask him.'

' Ask him yourself! '

' / should like to know if the Englishman has sisters ;
and if so, how old and how many and what sex.'

' Ask him.'

' Ask him yourself ! '

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

' Ask him,' etc. etc. etc.

Little Billee, conscious that he was the subject of con-
versation, grew somewhat nervous. Soon he was addressed
directly.

' Dites done, l'Anglais ? '

' Kwaw ? ' said Little Billee.

' Avez-vous une soeur ? '

1 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
redness to his cheeks, and this particular form of overture
to friendship was abandoned.

w
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8o TRILBY

Presently Lambert said, ' Si nous mettions 1' Anglais a
l'echelle ? ' '

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

They tied you to a ladder, and carried you in procession
up and down the courtyard, 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 studio) was
got ready.

Little Billee smiled a singularly winning smile, and
suffered himself to be bound with such good-humour 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 remained 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 Ouartier Latin)
that he was seven feet high, and used to juggle with the
massicr and model as with a pair of billiard balls, using
only his left hand !

To return to Little Billee. When it struck twelve, 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

-4

H
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82 TRILB Y

Savarins — three sous apiece, fourpence-halfpenny the set
of three. No nicer cakes are made in France, and they
are as good in the Ouartier 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, which is shaped like a ring, very light, and
flavoured with rum. And then you must really leave off.

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

They dragged the model-throne into the middle, and a
chair was put on for Little Billee, who dispensed his
hospitality in a very polite and attractive manner, helping
the massier first, and then the other graybeards 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 little press-
ing he sung 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 belong 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 songs.

He was, however, much applauded at the end of each
verse. When he had finished, he was asked if he were
quite sure there wasn't any more of it, and they expressed
a deep regret ; and then each student, straddling on his
little thick-set chair as on a horse, and clasping the back
of it in both hands, galloped round Little Billee's throne

TRILB Y 83

quite seriously — the strangest procession he had ever seen.
It made him laugh till he cried, so that he could not 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, something of
sympathetic, of touching — something of je ne sais quoi /'

Bouchardy : ' Yes, yes — something of je ne 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
characterisation — Papelard. Dites done, l'Anglais ! once
more that beautiful song — Jiein ? Nous vous en prions
tous.'

Little Billee willingly sang it again, with even greater
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 stimu-
lating. And you, Bouchardy ? '

Bouchardy : ' Oh, me ! It is above all the words that
I admire ; they have something of passionate, of
romantic — " ze-ese gla-aves, zese gla-aves, zey do not
belong to me." I don't know what that means, but I
love that sort of — of — of — of — -je ne sais quoi, in short !
Just once more, l'Anglais ; only once, the four couplets.'

So he sang it a third time, all four verses, while they
leisurely ate and drank and smoked and looked at each

84 TRILB V

other, nodding solemn commendation of certain phrases
in the song : ' Tres bien ! ' ' Tres bien ! ' ' Ah ! voila
qui est bien rcussi ! ' ' Epatant, ca ! ' ' Tres fin ! ' etc.
etc. For, stimulated by success, and rising to the
occasion, he did his very utmost to surpass 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 impromptu
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
studio, where he spent many happy mornings and made
many good friends.

No more popular student had ever worked there
within the memory of the grayest graybeards ; none
more amiable, more genial, more cheerful, self-respecting,
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 or fifth day of the week, a group of
admiring students would be gathered by his easel
watching him as he worked.

B
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86 TRILB Y

* C'est un rude lapin, l'Anglais ! au moins il sait son
orthographe en peinture, ce coco-la ! '

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

• •••••

Young as she was (seventeen or eighteen, or there-
abouts), and also tender (like Little Billee), 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 minutes
to decide that it was quite the nicest, homeliest, genialest,
jolliest studio in the whole Ouartier 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.

In the first place, they were English, and she loved 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
flittings 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 qualities — ■
the qualities that so often go with those particular 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

TRILB V 87

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 stalwart and
magnificent Taffy, the jolly 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 power to please — to make
herself both useful and ornamental 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.

Then, as often as she felt it to be discreet, she
sounded 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 Ouartier 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 probably true —
quite so, as far as she was concerned ; she was the most
literal person alive ; and she told all these ragots, cancans,
et potins d1 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

TR1LB V

a costume were wanted, for instance, she knew where to
borrow it, or hire it or buy it cheaper than any one any-
where else. She procured stuffs for them at cost price,

1 §

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 her-
self), for Taffy's starving
dressmaker 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.

THE LATIN QUARTER

TRILBY 89

And then again, when they were hard up and wanted
a good round sum of money for some little pleasure
excursion, such as a trip to Fontainebleau or Barbizon for
two or three days, it was she who 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 necessary funds.

She was, of course, most liberally paid for all these
little services, rendered with such pleasure and goodwill —
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-humour,
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 Vinard — 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 painted by
all three. One of these sketches (in water-colour 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 was decided they
should dine at home, she would fetch the food and cook

90 TRILB Y

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 banquet. 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 homelessness, 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 familiar
intimacy there was never any hint of gallantry or flirta-
tion in any shape or form whatever — bonne camaraderie
voila tout. Had she been Little Billee's sister she could
not have been treated with more real respect. And her
deep gratitude for this unwonted compliment transcended
any passion she had ever felt. As the good Lafontaine
so prettily says —

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

And then their talk ! It was to her as the talk of
the gods in Olympus, save that it was easier to under-
stand, and she could always 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, Walter 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 revealed to

2
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92 TRILBY

her. She grew more English every day ; and that was a
good thing.

Trilby speaking English and Trilby speaking French
were two different beings. Trilby's English was more or
less that of her father, a highly-educated man ; her
mother, who was a Scotchwoman, although an uneducated
one, had none of the ungainliness that mars the speech
of so many Englishwomen in that humble rank — no
droppings of the //, no broadening of the <?'s and a's.

Trilby's French was that of the Ouartier 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 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 absolutely
' 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 training.

But enter a Frenchman or two, and a transformation
effected itself immediately — a new incarnation of Trilby-
ness — so droll and amusing that it was difficult to decide
which of her two incarnations was the more attractive.

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

For instance, she would be miserably jealous of any
other woman who came to the 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! '

TRILBY 93

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. 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 indiscrimin-
ately. 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, unutterably sweet and kind and
tender, such a brooding, dovelike look of soft and warm
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 would find it very
difficult to keep itself in its proper place — unshed.

TRILB Y

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

Gerdme ; to M. Carrel,

! 5

who scarcely used any
other model.

It was poor Trilby's
sad distinction that she

' THE SOFT EYES '

surpassed all other models as Calypso surpassed her
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.

TRILBY 95

She would have ridden through Coventry, like Lady
Godiva — but without giving it a thought beyond wonder-
ing 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 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 shady pretenders, 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 armoury by which she can pierce to
the grosser passions of man. The more perfect her un-
veiled 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 failure 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.

96 TRILBY

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, yet sober Silenus, and chasten Jove
himself — a thing to Quixotise a modern French masher !
I can well believe him. For myself, I only speak of
Trilby as I have seen her — clothed and in her right mind.
She never sat to me for any Phryne, never bared herself
to me, 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 the best of their kind. I
have also, like Svengali, 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 splendour of outward
form that mighty Yorkshireman sitting in his tub, or
sunning himself, like Ilyssus, at the Bains Henri Quatre,
or taking his running header a la Ziussarde, off the spring-
board at the Bains Deligny, with a group of wondering
Frenchmen gathered round.

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

TR1LB V

Omne ignotum pro magnifico !

If our climate were such that we could go about with-
out any clothes on, we probably should ; in which case,
although we should still murder and lie and steal and bear
false witness against our neighbour, and break the Sabbath

ILYSSUS

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 Christianity would be relieved of its
hardest task in this sinful world, and Venus Aphrodite
[alias Aselgeia) would have to go a-begging along with
the tailors and dressmakers and bootmakers, and perhaps
our bodies and limbs would be as those of the Theseus

98 TRILB Y

and Venus of Milo ; who was no Venus, except in good
looks !

At all events, there would be no cunning, cruel decep-
tions, no artful taking in of artless inexperience, no unduly
hurried waking-up from Love's young dream, no handing
down to posterity of hidden uglinesses 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 poor Miss Gale, the figure-model, would
be permitted to eke out her slender earnings by teaching
calisthenics and deportment to the daughters of the
British upper middle-class at Miss Pinkerton's academy
for young ladies, The Mall, Chiswick.

And here let me humbly apologise 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 talking 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 the chilliest of mortals, and quite unlike 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

TRILB Y 99

habits de Pdqucs, his hair well curled and pomatumed, his
hands and face well 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 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 progenitors.

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, infantile
laughter (which was like an echo of Trilby's, only an
octave higher) so moved and touched and tickled one that
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-colour 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 the trots Angliches took Trilby and Jeannot (for
so the mite was called) to spend the Sunday in the
woods at Meudon, and breakfast and dine at the garde
diampctres. Swings, peep-shows, donkey-rides ; shooting
at a mark with cross-bows and little pellets of clay, and

ioo TRILBY

smashing little plaster figures and winning macaroons ;
losing one's self in the beautiful 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 character, en
demoiselle, with a little black bonnet, and a gray jacket of
her own making.

To look at (but for her loose, square-toed, heel-less silk
boots laced up the inner side), she might have been the
daughter of an English dean — until she undertook to
teach the Laird some favourite 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.

This was after dinner, in the garden, at la loge dn
garde champetre. 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 cancans
and cancans) was a singularly gainly and seductive person
— et vera incessu patait dea ! Here, again, she was funny
without being vulgar. And for mere grace (even in the
cancan), she was the forerunner of Miss Kate Vaughan ;
and for sheer fun, the precursor of Miss Nelly Farren !

And the Laird, trying to dance after her (' dongsong

TRILBY

101

le konkong,' as he called it), was too funny for words ;
and if genuine popular success is a true test of humour,
no greater humorist ever danced a pas sail.

' "VOILA l'espayce de 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 applause

io2 TRILB V

that greeted his performance of various solo steps of his
own — Scotch reels and sword-dances that came in admir-
ably. . . .

Then, one fine day (as a judgment on him, no doubt),
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 ; tkoutez ! 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 heartfelt fervour, intoning,
solemnly :

' " Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace —
All these 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 allowances.

And afterwards he said such sweet things to Trilby
about it all, and about her admirable care of his patient,

TRILB V 103

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 how the trots Angliches
came in time to feel for Trilby quite a peculiar regard,
and looked forward with sorrowful forebodings 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 :

Gecko, with a humble, doglike worship that expressed
itself in mute, pathetic deference and looks of lowly self-
depreciation, of apology for his own unworthy existence,
as though the only requital he would ever dare to dream

io4 TRILBY

of were a word of decent politeness, 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 playfulness, like that of
a cat with a mouse — a weird, ungainly cat, and most
unclean ; a sticky, haunting, long, lean, uncanny, black
spider-cat, if there is such an animal outside a bad dream.

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

So he would playfully try to mesmerise 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 friendly
' Now then, old fellow, none of that ! ' and a jolly slap
on the back, which would make Svengali cough for an
hour, and paralyse 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-deserved
success. He even gave a concert of his own, which
made a furore, and blossomed out into beautiful and
costly clothes of quite original colour 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, shoe-
makers, jewellers, but paid none of his old debts to his
friends. His pockets were always full of printed slips —

TRILB V 105

things that had been written about him in the papers —
and he would read them aloud to everybody he knew,
especially to Trilby, as she sat darning socks on the
model-throne while the fencing and boxing 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 — hem ?
What is your Little Billee, with his stinking oil -bladders,
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 ! " Svengali will go to London
himself. Ha ! ha ! He will be all alone on a platform,
and play as nobody else can play ; and hundreds of
beautiful Englanderinnen will see and hear and go mad
with love for him — Prinzessen, Comtessen, Serene English
Altessen. They will soon lose their Serenity and their
Highness when they 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 kitchen and warrons glace's,
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 ?

1 And he will not look at them, even ! He will look
inward, at his own dream — and his dream will be about

io6 TRILB Y

Drilpy — to lay his talent, his glory, his thousand francs
at her beautiful white feet !

'Their stupid, big, fat, tow-headed, putty-nosed
husbands will be mad with jealousy, and long to box
him, but they will be afraid. Ach ! those beautiful
Anclaises ! they will think it an honour 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 con-
ceited verfiucJite 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 world is talking
about hi in, the fool ! He forgets that there is a fellow
called Svengali 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 him 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

TRILBY 107

when Svengali talks ! 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 beautiful 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 window — Englanders, chiffon-
niers, painters and sculptors, workmen, piou-pious, old
hags of washerwomen — and say, " Ah ! what a beautiful
woman was that ! Look at her ! She ought to be
rolling in her carriage and pair ! " And just then who
should come by, 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 ! '

io8 TRILBY

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 beautiful
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 ac-
companiment, which was a triumph of cacophony, and he
would encourage her — Tres pien, tres pien, ca 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 difference, 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

TIT For. TAT

1 10 TRILB V

round, saying : ' Himmcl ! what's this for an arm ? It's
like a girl's ! '

1 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 dis-
cordant than Trilby's — for he didn't dream of kicking
Taffy : of that you may be sure !

Such 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

PART THIRD

' Par de^a, ne dela la mer

Ne scay dame ni damoiselle

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 Fontainebleau — a heavenly week
among the painters ; Rousseau, 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 —
painting the forest as it is, and peopling it with beautiful
people out of his own fancy — leading a healthy outdoor
life of simple wants and lofty aspirations.

At length Taffy said ; ' Bother work this morning !
I feel much more like a stroll in the Luxembourg Gardens
and lunch at the Cafe dc l'Odeon, where the omelets are

the happy life

good and the wine isn't
blue.'

' The very thing I was
M thinking of myself,' said
the Laird.

So Taffy slipped 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 greatcoat 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 general demoralisation.

And whom should they meet coming down the narrow
turreted Rue Vielle des Trois Mauvais Ladres but Little
Billee himself, with an air of general demoralisation so
tragic that they were quite alarmed. He had his paint-
box and field-easel in one hand and his little valise in the

TRILBY ii.

other. He was pale, his hat on the back of his head,
his hair staring all at sixes and sevens, like a sick Scotch
terrier's.

' Good Lord ! what's the matter ? ' said Taffy.

' Oh ! oh ! oh ! she's sitting at Carrel's ! '

' Who's sitting at Carrel's ? '

' Trilby ! sitting to all those ruffians ! 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 Taffy, collaring
him.

' Let me go, Taffy — let me go, damn it ! I'll come
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 shan't let you go unless you swear to me, on your
honour, that you'll write directly you get there, and every
day till you come back. Swear ! '

' All right ; I swear — honour 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 surprised at Trilby.
It's a bad thing for her when we're away. What could

H4 TRILBY

have induced her ? She never sat 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 s/ie'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 remembered,
the more convinced they became that both were right.

1 Here's a pretty kettle of fish ! ' said the Laird — ' and
talking of fish, let's go and lunch.'

And so demoralised were they 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 favour
to be the model, and Trilby was so devoted 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
an earthenware pitcher on her shoulder.

And the work began in religious silence. Then in
five minutes or so Little Billee came bursting in, and as

to ' c i; V- L

' LET ME GO, TAFFY . . .' "

n6 TRILBY

soon as he caught sight of her he stopped and stood as
one petrified, his shoulders up, his eyes staring. Then
lifting his arms, he turned and fled.

' Ou'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 comment.

But Trilby was much disquieted, and fell to wondering
what on earth was the matter.

At first she wondered in French : French of the
Quartier 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 beauti-
fully— 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 suddenly 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 singularly
expressive face.

Could it possibly be that he was shocked at seeing her
sitting there ?

She knew that he was peculiar in many ways. She

TRILB V

117

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
remembered how Little Billee had always been silent
whenever she alluded to her
posing for the ' altogether,'
as she called it, and had
sometimes looked pained
and always very grave.

She turned alternately
pale and red, pale and red
all over, again and again, as
the thought grew up in her
— and soon the growing
thought became a torment.

This new-born feeling of
shame was unendurable — 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
ill ? ' asked Carrel, who, like
every one else, was very
fond of her, and to whom
she had sat as a child

(' L'Enfance 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 ;

qu'est ce QU IL A DON'C, ce
LITREBILI? " '

u8 TRILBY

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 Carrel,
jumping up and helping her off the throne.

' Oh, I don't know — I don't know — I'm ill — very 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 shoulder,
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 responsibility (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. So the pitcher
went to the well once more.

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 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
trots Angliches, and chose the Laird.

She was more familiar with him than with the other

no TRILBY

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 caress-
ing a favourite young uncle or elder brother. And though
the good Laird was the least susceptible of mortals, he
would often find these innocent blandishments a some-
what 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 without
the spelling, which was often faulty, although her nightly
readings had much improved it :

' My DEAR FRIEND — I am very unhappy I was
sitting at Carrel's, in the Rue des Potirons, and Little
Billee 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 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

TRILBY 121

have liked my doing that either, though we wanted the
money badly. And so he never knew.

1 1 have sat for the " altogether " to several other people
besides — M. Gerome, Durien, the two Hennequins, and
Emile Baratier ; and for the head and hands to lots of
people, and for the feet only to Charles Faure, Andre
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 Ouartier knows. Baratier and Besson ;
but not Durien, though people think so. Nobody else, I
swear — except old Monsieur Penque at the beginning, who
was mamma's friend.

' It makes me almost die of shame and misery 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
Ouartier 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 friendship
I shouldn't care to live a bit. Dear Sandy, I love your
little finger better than any man or woman I ever met ;
and Taffy's and Little Billee's little fingers too.

' What shall I do ? I daren't go out for fear of meet-
ing 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 blancJiisseuse tie fin
with my old friend Angele Boisse, who 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 somewhere,

122 TRILBY

if you will tell me where and when ; or else I 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,

' Trilby O'Ferrall.'

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 cry himself; but he burst out laughing
instead — which was better and more in his line, and very
much more 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 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, clasp-
ing 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

% ,- ' ■ I

CONFESSION

124 TRILBY

better not — and especially how happy it would make them
to feel she intended 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 him-
self 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 Ouarter behind him : she had confessed
and been forgiven.

And with 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 conditions of her
humble calling. It now meant another kind of cleanliness,
and she would luxuriate in it for evermore ; and the
dreadful past — never to be forgotten by her — should be so
lived down as in time, perhaps, 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 reminded 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.

TRILBY 125

Fame and fortune would soon be his — such fame and
fortune as fall 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.

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 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
realised : 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 pere
Trin's, and Trilby went back to her blancJiisserie de fin.

126 TRILBY

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 favour, 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 blanchisscuse 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 jaws began to show them-
selves, 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

K
O

w
p

-3
5

128 TRILBY

better himself. Also, her mouth, always too large, took
on a firmer and sweeter outline, and her big British teeth
were so white and regular 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.

Favourite 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 Clement-
inas, 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. 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 or 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. More-
over, she was thought much too tall for her sex, and her

TRILB Y

129

clay, 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, / 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 — v.
almost like a joyful saint at /;.
times. She's lovely ! By
Jove ! I couldn't stand her V '"" '/;
hugging me as she does you ! ') Y-M'^^Jfi
There'd be a tragedy — say the

slaughter of Little Billee.'

' TWIN GRAY STARS'

' Ah ! Taffy, my boy,' re-
joined 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 honourable 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,

130 TRILBY

' 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 Donner-

wetter ! I forgot ! The grisettes of the Ouartier 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 ! bourn ! Better than the waiter at
the Cafe" de la Rotonde, hein ? And the grisettes of the
Ouartier Latin shall pour us out your little white wine —
fotre betit fin plane, as your pig-dog monkey of a poet
says, your rotten verfiuchter 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 Elysees. 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 siissen fiussen, 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 Ecole de Medecine, and Svengali shall come in his
new fur-lined coat, smoking his big cigar of the Havana,

TRILB Y

131

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 tom-cat!" 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.' Ji

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 - An incubus '

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

132 TRILBY

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 droop-
ing 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 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 begun 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, 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

TRILBY 133

when they all met at meal-time, 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 remark-
able, 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 characterisation might be use-
ful as memoires 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 Pare Monceau ;
his wife and daughters are the best-dressed women in

134 TRILBY

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.

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 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. 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 ? '

TRILB Y r35

' 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 him-
self, and colour pipes divinely ; he was a great favourite
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 Petrilopetrolico-
conose — for so he was christened by the Laird — because
his real name was thought much too long ; and much too
lovely for the Ouartier Latin, and reminded one too much
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

136 TRILBY

hospitable as in the old Paris days, but he no longer
colours 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 fashion-
able 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.

Then there was the yellow-haired Antony, a Swiss —
the idle apprentice, le rot des truands, as we called him —
to whom everything was forgiven, as to Francois Villon, a
cause de ses gcntillcsscs — surely, for all his reprehensible
pranks, the gentlest and most lovable creature that ever
lived in Bohemia, or out of it.

THE CAPITALIST AND THE SWELL

TRILBY

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 strict-
ness belonged to his endless creditors ; like Svengali,
humorous, witty, and a most exquisite and original artist,
and also somewhat eccentric in his attire (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 manner, void of any self-
conceit ; and, in spite of the irregularities of his life, the
very soul of truth and honour, as gentle as he was
chivalrous and brave ; the warmest, staunchest, 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 for ever !

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 — -ox even English (for he was an astounding
linguist) ; and telling himself that he was forsaken by
family, friends, and mistress alike, look out of his case-
ment 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 infinite,' and bewail ' the cruel
deceptions of his life,' and finally lay himself down to die
of sheer starvation.

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 designs of the most
exquisite humour, pathos, and beauty ; these early

TRILBY 139

illustrated epitaphs of the young Antony, of which there
still exist a goodly number, are now priceless, 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 the Rue du Ghette and sold
for twenty, fifty, a hundred francs ; and then vogue la
galore ! and back again to Bohemia, dear Bohemia and
all its joys, as long as the money lasted . . . e pot, da
capo ! -

And now that his name is a household word in two
hemispheres, and he himself an honour and a glory to the
land he has adopted as his own, he loves to remember 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 bon temps oh Von etait si malkeureux !

And with all that Quixotic dignity of his, so famous
is he as a wit that when he jokes (and he is always jok-
ing), 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 ! '

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 you almost

140

TRILBY

resent their being made at anybody's expense but your

own ! Never from Antony :

' The aimless jest that striking 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 strikingly
handsome, though rather bald ; and such an aristocrat in
bearing, aspect, and manner, that you would take him for
a blue-blooded descendant of the Crusaders 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-favoured, he was a most
eager, earnest, and painstaking young enthusiast, of pre-
cocious 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
exemplary record as an art student, he was the most

TRILBY 141

delightful 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
Veronese, Tintoret, Raphael, or Titian — never a modern
— -moderns didn't exist ! And so thoroughgoing was he
in his worship, and so persistent in voicing 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

graybeard, 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 Inferno — 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 ! tlon'tcher bother me !
For I belong to the Comp'ny G ! '

Both these famous men are happily (and most beauti-
fully) married — grandfathers for all I know — and ' move

142 TRILBY

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 before
the present scribe (a meek and somewhat innocent out-
sider) 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 inseparables
of eighteen, nineteen, twenty, even twenty-five, who share
each other's thoughts and purses, and wear each other's
clothes, and swear each other's oaths, and smoke each
other's pipes, and respect each other's lights 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 disappoint-
ment 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,

TRILBY 143

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 dragon
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 l'Zouzou — a corporal in
the Zouaves.

Both of these worthies had met Taffy in the Crimea,
and frequented the studios in the Quartier Latin, where
they adored (and were adored by) the grisettes and models,
especially Trilby.

Both of them were distinguished for being the worst
subjects (les plus mauvais garnements) of their respective
regiments ; yet both were special favourites 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, according
to their company, whose manners they reflected ; they
were true chameleons !

Both were always ready to share their last ten-sou

144 TRILBY

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 offer 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, 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 himself
studying life and character in that most delightful and
festive scene la Fete de St. Cloud, and met Dodor and
l'Zouzou there, who hailed him with delight, saying :

1 Nous allons joliment jubiler, nom d'une pipe ! ' and
insisted on his joining in their amusements and paying
for them — round-abouts, 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 theyteased 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 sou s-officier or a gendarme came in sight, and
then they danced quite mincingly and demurely, en maitre
iVecole, 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 between
them, arm-in-arm, and talking to them in English when-
ever they saw coming towards them a respectable English
family with daughters. It was the dragoon's delight to

, to

" ' I WILL NOT ! I WILL NOT !' "

146 TRILBY

get himself stared at by fair daughters of Albion for
speaking as good English as themselves — a rare ac-
complishment in a French trooper — and Zouzou's happi-
ness to be thought English 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.
He 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 of
an omnibus, among a very proletarian crowd ; and there
the two facetious warriors immediately made themselves
pleasant all round and became* very popular, especially
with the women and children ; but not, I regret to say,
through the propriety, refinement, and discretion of their
behaviour. 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
Ouartier Latin by the Pont de la Concorde and the Rue
de Lille in the Faubourg St. Germain.

Little Billee loved the Faubourg St. Germain, especially
the Rue de Lille. He was fond of gazing at the magnifi-
cent old mansions, the hotels of the old French noblesse,
or rather the outside walls thereof, the grand sculptured
portals with the armorial bearings and the splendid old

TRILB Y

147

historic names above them — Hotel de This, Hotel de
That, Rohan -Chabot, Montmorency, La Rochefoucauld-
Liancourt, La Tour d'Auvergne.

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 history, loving
to read Froissart and Saint Simon and the genial

Brantome.

Halting opposite one

nest and oldest

se gateways, his

vourite, labelled

DODOR IN HIS GLORY

148 TRILBY

' Hotel de la Rochemartel ' in letters of faded gold over a
ducal coronet and a huge escutcheon of stone, he began to
descant upon its architectural beauties and noble propor-
tions to l'Zouzou.

' Parbleu ! ' said l'Zouzou, ' connu, farceur ! why, I was
born there, on the 6th of March 1834, at 5.30 in the
morning. Lucky day for France — hein ? '

'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 it were two elderly ladies and a younger one.

To Little Billee's 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.

' Parbleu ! si je la connais I 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 carriage
and at that big house ? '

' Parbleu, farceur ! She lives there ! '

' Lives there ? Why, who and what is she, your
mother ?

'The Duchesse de la Rochemartel, par-bleti ! and that's
my sister ; and that's my aunt, Princesse de Chevagne-
Bauffremont ! She's the " patronne " of that chic equipage.
She's a millionaire, my aunt Chevagne ! '

HOTEL DE LA ROCHEMARTEL

ISO TRILBY

' Well, I never ! What's your name, then ? '

'Oh, my name! Hang it — let me see! Well —
Gontran — Xavier — Francois — Marie — Joseph d'Amaury
de Brissac de Roncesvaulx de la Rochemartel-Boissegur,
at your service ! '

1 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 ! '

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 aristo-
cracy, 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 Taffy 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 mostly
in the country. The Duke is Zouzou's brother ; very
unlike Zouzou ; he's consumptive and unmarried, and the

TRILB V i s i

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 ! '

1 Yes — Rigolot de Lafarce. I've no doubt he descends
from the Crusaders too ; the name seems to favour 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 England ; that's why he speaks
English so well — and behaves so badly, perhaps ! He's
got a very beautiful sister, married to a man in the Goth
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 English
chapel in the Rue Marbceuf, is very hard on his
employes and employees if they are a little late at their
counters on a Monday morning ?

I wonder if that stuck-up, stingy, stodgy, communard-
shooting, church-going, time-serving, place-hunting, pious-
eyed, pompous old prig, martinet, and philistine, Monsieur
le Marechal-Duc de la Rochemartel-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

152 TRILBY

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-honoured and
beautiful seems at a discount.

So he has kept his blackguard ducal Zouave for the
bouquet of this little show — the final bonne bouche in his
Bohemian menu — that he may make it palatable to those
who only look upon the good old Quartier Latin (now no
more to speak of) as a very low, common, vulgar quarter in-
deed, 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 cJiaumiere —

' Pour y danser le cancan
Ou le Robert Macaire —
Toujours — toujours — toujours —
La nuit comme le jour . . .
Et youp ! youp ! youp !
Tra la la la la . . . la la la ! '

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 Westminster, 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 Vieille des Trois
Mauvais Ladres, Little Billee's delight !

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

TRILB Y

153

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, child-like
and bland ; and when they talked it was generally 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 describe them —
Durien, Vincent, Antony, Lorrimer, Carnegie, Petrolicoco-
nose, l'Zouzou, and Dodor !

The cooking and waiting should be done by Trilby,
her friend Angele Boisse, M. et Mme. Vinard, 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 — Svengali and Gecko, and
perhaps one or two more. No ladies !

154 TRILBY

For, as the unsusceptible Laird expressed it, in the
language of a gillie he had once met at a servant's 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,
curacoa, ratafia de cassis, and anisette ; no expense was
spared.

Also, truffled galantines of turkey, tongues, hams,
rillettes de Tours, pates de foie gras, frontage d'ltalie
(which has nothing to do with cheese), saucissons d' Aries
et de Lyon, with and without garlic, cold jellies peppery and
salt — everything that French charcutiers and their wives
can make out of French pigs, or any other animal what-
ever, 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 anticipa-
tion. They water somewhat sadly now at the mere
remembrance of these delicious things — the mere immediate
sight or scent of which in these degenerate latter days
would no longer avail to promote any such delectable
secretion. Hrfas ! ahinic ! acJi well ! ay de mi ! c/ieu !
ol'/jioi — in point of fact, alas !

That is the very exclamation I wanted.

Christmas Eve came round. The pieces of resistance

CHRISTMAS KVE

1 56 TRILB Y

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 dominoes at the Cafe du
Luxembourg, and possessed their souls in patience till it
was time to go and hear the midnight mass at the
Madeleine, where Roucouly, the great barytone of the
Opera Comique, was retained to sing Adam's famous
Noel.

The whole Ouartier seemed alive with the rcveillon.
It was a clear, frosty night, with a splendid moon just
past the full, and most exhilarating was 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 Parthenaic
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 beauti-
ful 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 l'heure solennelle
Oil l'Homme-Dieu descendit parmi nous ! '

And a wave of religious emotion rolled over Little
Billee and submerged him ; swept him off his little legs,

TRILB Y

157

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 and ever was and
ever will be — a very large order indeed, even for Little
Billee.

4M/MrJMA

• " ALLONS, GLYCERE ! ROUGIS MON VERRE. .

And it seemed to him that he stretched out his arms
for love to one figure especially beloved beyond all the
rest — one figure erect on high with arms outstretched to
him, in more than common fellowship of need ; not the

158 TRILBY

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 corrupt city
on earth. Trilby weak and mortal like himself, and in
woful want of pardon ! and in her gray dove-like 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 for ever, come what would or could.

1 Peuple, debout ! Chante ta delivrance !
Noel ! AToel ! Void le Ridempteur ! '

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 !

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 doorstep, and smoking two cigars at

TRILBY 159

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. He had not spent his reveillon 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 maudlin embraces, 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 trying to sing

his senseless ditty :

' Allons, Glycere !
Rougis mon verre
Du jus divin dont mon cceur est toujours jaloux . . .
Et puis a table,
Bacchante aimable !
Enivrons-nous (hie) Les g-glougloux sont des rendez-vous ! ' . . .

Then the song ceased for a while, and soon there
were other sounds, as on a Channel steamer. Glougloux
indeed !

Then the fear arose in Little Billee's mind lest the
drunken beast should set fire to his bedroom curtains.
All heavenly visions were chased away for the night. . . .

Our hero, half crazed with fear, disgust, and irritation,
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

i6o TRILBY

patronne ; he would have Ribot turned out into the
street ; he would leave the hotel himself the very next
morning ! At last he fell asleep, thinking of all he would
do ; and thus, ridiculously and ignominiously for Little
Billee, ended the rtveillon.

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 vialade ce matin), he expressed himself
very severely on the conduct of that gentleman, and on
the dangers from fire that might arise from a tipsy man
being trusted alone in a small bedroom 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 deeply 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 !

PART FOURTH

' Felicite passee
Qui ne peux revenir,
Tourment de ma pensee,
Que n'ay-je, en te perdant, perdu le souvenir ! '

MlD-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 readiness ;
Trilby and Madame Angele Boisse were in the studio,
their sleeves turned up, and ready to begin.

At twelve the trots 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 settled who
was to sit next to whom, and then unsettled it, and
quarrelled over it — Trilby, as was her wont in such
matters, assuming an authority that did not rightly belong
to her, and of course getting her own way in the end.

And that, as the Laird remarked, was her confounded
Trilbyness.

Two o'clock — three — four — but no hamper ! Dark-
ness had almost set in. It was simply maddening.

SOUVENIR

They knelt on the divan,
with their elbows on the
window-sill, and watched
the street-lamps popping
into life along the quays
— and looked out 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 l'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 hope-
less and despondent round the stove, became a scene of
the noisiest, busiest, and cheerfullest animation. The

TRILBY 163

three big lamps were lit, and all the Chinese lanterns.
The pieces of resistance and the pudding were whisked off
by Trilby, Angele, and Madame Vinard to other regions
— the porter's lodge and Durien'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-humoured that nobody
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, peel-
ing, 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 (cockaleekie, 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 permission 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.

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 bully-
ragged her husband into a proper smartness. The pretty

164 TRILBY

little Madame Angele moved about as deftly and as quietly
as a mouse ; which of course did not prevent them both
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 favourites —
Durien, Taffy, the Laird, Little Billee— and Dodor and
Zouzou, whom she loved, and tutoyfd en bonne camaradc
as she served them with all there was of the choicest.

The two little Vinards did their little best — they
scrupulously respected the mincc-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 unaccustomed 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 diplomatic 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 Dickens ; and John
Leech.

TRILBY 165

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 veeverler 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 the Lowlands low,'

which was encored.

Little Billee sang ' Little Billee.'
Vincent sang.

' Old Joe kicking up behind and afore,
And the yaller gal a-kicking up behind old Joe.'

A capital song, with words of quite a masterly scansion.

Antony sang ' Le Sire de Framboisy.' Enthusiastic
encore.

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 favourite song, and is one of the beautiful songs
of the world, and he sang it very well — and it became
popular in the Ouartier Latin ever after.

The Greek couldn't sing, and very wisely didn't.

Zouzou sang capitally a capital song in praise of le
vin a qua? sous !

1 66 TRILBY

Taffy, in a voice like a high wind (and with a very
good imitation of the Yorkshire brogue), sang a Somerset-
shire 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 Nancy was a
dear and a sweet, wherever she lived, and when. So
Taffy 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 Masanicllo,
with such pathos, and in a voice so sweet and high and
well in tune, that his audience felt almost weepy in the
midst of their jollification ; and grew quite sentimental,
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 Vinard 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,
tous ces Angliches — tous 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.

-
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es
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1 68 TRILBY

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 reckless
one Sunday morning, and went to the Bains Deligny,
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 bootmaker, Satory, to whom he owed sixty
francs — of all his duns the one he dreaded the most, and
who didn't let him go in a hurry.

Whereupon Svengali remarked that he also owed
sixty francs to Satory — ' Mais comme che ne me baigne
chamais, che n'ai rien a craindre ! '

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.

Then Dodor and l'Zouzou stood up to dance with
Trilby and Madame Angele, and executed 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.

Then the Laird danced a sword-dance over two
T-squares and broke them both. And Taffy, baring his

TRILBY 169

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 sen-
tentiously opined that they managed these things better
in England, and winked at Little Billee.

A DUCAL FRENCH FIGHTING COCK

Then they played at ' cock-fighting,' with their wrists
tied across their shins, and a broomstick thrust in be-
tween ; 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

170 TRILBY

Zouave playing at this got so angry, and were so irresist-
ibly funny a sight, that the shouts of laughter could be
heard on the other side of the river, so that a sergent-de-
villc came in and civilly requested them not to make so
much noise. They were disturbing the whole Quartier,
he said, and there was quite a rassemblement outside. So
they made him tipsy, and also another policeman, who
came to look after his comrade, and yet another ; and
these guardians 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
remonstrate with them, till they got too tipsy to speak,
and fell fast asleep, and were laid next to each other
behind the stove.

The Jin-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 call-
ing themselves gentlemen, and being called so, still
wrenched 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 chronicled and set down
in John Leech's immortal pictures of life and character
out of Punch.

Then M. and Mme. Vinard and Trilby and Angele
Boisse bade the company good-night, Trilby being 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

" - A^aWfcK Mi., TKII.BY !' "

172

TRILB Y

the twentieth time — will you marry me? If not, I leave
Paris to-morrow morning, and never come back. I swear
it on my word of honour ! '

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/' said Trilby, and she ran down-
stairs, weeping.

It was now very late.

It soon became evident that Little Billee was in
extraordinarily high spirits — in an abnormal state of
excitement.

He challenged Svengali to spar, and made his nose
bleed, and frightened him out of his sardonic wits. He

performed wonderful and

quite unsuspected feats of

He swore eternal

Wm friendship to Dodor and

A CAEY^HDE

TRILBY 173

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 be-
tween Dodor and Zouzou by a late windy moonlight in
the Rue Vieille des Trois Mauvais 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 "-utter,
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 cary/Wide (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.

There they sat Little Billee on the door-step and
rang the bell, and seeing some one coming up the Place
de l'Odeon, and fearing he might be a sergent-de-villc, they
bid Little Billee a most affectionate but hasty farewell,
kissing him on both cheeks in French fashion, and con-
trived to get themselves round the corner and out of sight.

174 TRILBY

Little Billee tried to sing Zouzou's drinking-song :

' Quoi de plus doux
Que les glougloux —
Les glougloux du vin a quat' sous. . . .'

The stranger came up. Fortunately, it was no sergent-
de-villc, but Ribot, just back from a Christmas-tree and a
little family dance at his aunt's, Madame Kolb (the
Alsatian banker's wife, in the Rue de la Chaussee
d'Antin).

Next morning poor Little Billee 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 cliiendcnt (which does not happen 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 doorstep would have been his portion ; and who
could say he didn't deserve it ? And then think of the
danger of fire from a tipsy man all alone in a small bed-
room with chintz curtains and a lighted candle ! '

' Ribot was kind enough to blow out my candle,' said
Little Billee, humbly.

' Ah, Dame ! ' said Madame Paul, with much meaning
— ' au moins il a ban caeur, Monsieur Ribot ! '

And the cruellest sting of all was when the good-
natured and incorrigibly festive Ribot came and sat by
his bedside, and was kind and tenderly sympathetic, and

TRILB V

175

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 cetait plus drole
que chez ma tante Kolb ! '

J "

' " LES GLOUGLOUX DU VIN A QUAT' SOUS.

All of which, of course, it is unnecessary to translate ;
except, perhaps, the word bosse, which stands for noce,
which stands for a 'jolly good spree.'

176 TRILBY

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 ! He did not
care to live. He had but one longing : that Trilby, 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 happened to him, and a strange !

It was as though a tarnishing breath had swept over
the reminiscent mirror of his mind and left a little 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, razor-like edge of his power to
reach and re-evoke the bygone charm and glamour and
essence of things had been blunted and coarsened. As
though the bloom of that special joy, the gift he uncon-
sciously 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 youth and happy childhood,
and which he had once possessed, without knowing 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 thinned — that his
one supreme faculty of painting might have elbow-room

TRILBY 177

to reach its fullest, or else you could never have seen the
wood for the trees (or vice versa — which is it ? )

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 Vinard, cap in hand, respectfully intro-
duced a pair of visitors, an English lady and gentleman.

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 nervous 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 apologise for the carelessness of
their attire, or for the odour of tobacco that filled the
room. Little Billee's mother recognised the two painters
at a glance, from the sketches and descriptions of which
her son's letters were always full.

They all sat clown.

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 !' 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 position in
life from himself. Do you know the lady, Mr. Wynne?'

' Oh yes ! I know her very well indeed ; we all
know her.'

178 TRILBY

' Is she English ? '

' She's an English subject, I believe.'

' Is she a Protestant or a Roman Catholic ? ' inquired
the clergyman.

'A — a — upon my word, I really don't know !'

' You know her very well indeed, and you don't —
knozv — that, Mr. Wynne ! ' exclaimed Mr. Bagot.

' Is she a lady, Mr. Wynne ? ' asked Mrs. Bagot,
somewhat impatiently, as if that were a much more im-
portant matter.

By this time the Laird had managed to basely desert
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
what that word exactly means, you know ; things are so
— a — so different here. Her father was a gentleman, I
believe — a Fellow of Trinity, Cambridge — and a clergy-
man, if that means anything ! ... he was unfortunate
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 governess,
or something of that sort ? '

1 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 ? '

TRILB V

179

1 A — not that I know of ; I should even say, decidedly
not!'

' What is she, then ? She's at least respectable, I
hope ? '

IS SHE A LADY, MR. WYNNE?"'

' At present she's a — a blanchisseuse de fin — that is
considered respectable here.'

' Why, that's a washerwoman, isn't it ? '

1 Well — rather better than that, perhaps — de fin, you
know ! — things are so different in Paris ! I don't think

180 TRILBY

you'd say she was very much like a washerwoman — to
look at ! '

' Is she so good-looking, then ? '

' 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 expressed
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
lady said, ' Can't you — oh, can't you give me an answer,
Mr. Wynne?'

' Oh, Mrs. Bagot, you have placed me in a terrible
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! I cannot — I really must not
conceal from you that it would be an unfortunate marriage
for your son — from a — a worldly point of view, you know
— although both I and M'Allister have a very deep
and warm regard for poor Trilby O'Ferrall — indeed, a
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.'

' Well, a model of every sort, in every possible sense
of the word — head, hands, feet, everything ! '

' A model for the figure ?'

' Well— yes ! '

TRILBY 181

' Oh, my God ! my God ! my God ! ' cried Mrs. Bagot
— and she got up and walked up and down the studio in
a most terrible state of agitation, her brother-in-law
following her and begging her to control herself. Her
exclamations seemed to shock him, and she didn't seem
to care.

' Oh ! Mr. Wynne ! Mr. Wynne ! If you only knew
what my son is to me — to all of us — always has been !
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 innocent 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 here, 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 !
. . . Can't you, can't Mr. M'Allister do anything to
avert this miserable disaster ? You don't know how he
loves you both — you should see his letters to me and to
his sister ! they are always full of you ! '

' Indeed, Mrs. Bagot — you can count on M'Allister
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 that ! It is to Jier we must make our appeal.'

4 Oh, Mr. Wynne ! to a washerwoman — 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

1 8- TRILBY

been all that. But strange as it may seem to you — and
seems to me, for that matter — she's a — she's — upon my
word of honour, I really think she's about the best woman
I ever met — the most unselfish — the most '

' Ah ! She's a beautiful woman — I can well see that I '

' 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 interests
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 ! '

1 No, indeed — but if she refuses to marry him. She
may not do so, of course — but my instinct tells me she
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
affection for him ? '

4 Oh, M'Allister 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
yourself — 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 little
antechamber, and seeing strangers, was about to turn back.
She was dressed as a grisette, in her Sunday gown and

TRILBY 183

pretty white cap (for it was New Year's Day), and look-
ing 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 distin-
guished 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 O'Ferrall ? '

' Oh yes — yes — I am Trilby O'Ferrall, 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 her
whole aspect just then — so strangely in accord 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 for ever if I refused him. I
hadn't the courage. I was weak, you see ! It was a
dreadful mistake.'

' Are you so fond of him ? '

1 84

TRILB V

' Fond of him ? Aren't you ? '

' 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 foi

., spi ■ i ■

'"FOND OF HIM? AREN'T YOU?"'

him. If you are so fond 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 ? '

TRILBY 185

Trilby turned her miserable eyes to Taffy's miserable
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 her face, herself breathless with keen sus-
pense 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 yet, my dear good girl. I
want to talk to you. I want to tell you how deeply 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 sym-
pathetic, 'now if that could be arranged — and I've no
doubt there wouldn't be much opposition on the part of

1 86 TRILBY

the lady ' (here he made a little complimentary bow), ' it
would be a very desirable thing all round ! '

' It's tremendously good of you, I'm sure — to interest
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 Taffy, 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 interview — 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 temper
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 said :
' Mr. Wynne, I think I know what you are feeling just
now. You must try and make some allowance for us.
You will, I am sure, when we are gone, and you have had

TRILBY 187

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 ; pray 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 cannot 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 Taffy'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 ! No-
body'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 pretty young lady of
seventeen or so, pale and anxious, and so like Little Billee
that it was quite funny, and touched big Taffy's heart
again.

When Trilby went out into the courtyard in the Place

1 88 TRILBY

St. Anatole dcs Arts, she saw Miss Bagot looking out of
the carriage window, and in the young lady's face, as she
caught her eye, an expression of sweet surprise and sym-
pathetic admiration, with lifted eyebrows and parted lips
—just such a look as she had often got 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 never do ! TJiafs settled, anyhow ! '

Feeling a little dazed, and wishing to think, she
turned up the Rue Vieille des Mauvais Ladres, which was
always deserted at this hour. It was empty, but 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, saying : 'Oh, Trilby — what's it all about?
I couldn't stand it ! I ran away ! Little Billee's mother'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 way. 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

TRILB Y

189

through mc ! I shall leave this hateful place aud go and
live in the country : I suppose I must manage to get
through life somehow. . . . Days are so long — aren't
they ! and there's such a lot of 'em ! 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 was well prepared, you see.'

' SO LIKE LITTLE BILLEE '

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 ! '

' Now, how good and kind of you to say that ! ;
exclaimed poor Trilby, her eyes filling. ' Why, that's
just all I lived for, till all this happened. But it can't

190

TRILB Y

be any more now, can it? Everything is changed for
me — the very sky seems different. Ah ! Durien's little
song — " Plaisir d amour — chagrin d amour ! " 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
Ions: 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 compassion.
Then he filled himself another pipe and lit it, and hitched
himself on to another post, and sat there dangling his
legs 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 desertion before the foe.

Next morning Taffy received two letters : one, a 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

1 92 TRILBY

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 inevitably be in a
few years — even sooner ! The quick disenchantment,
the lifelong 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 heart 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, careless
handwriting, that sprawled all over the page, and her
occasionally imperfect spelling. It ran thus : —

' 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.

TRILBY 193

' 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 neglecting
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 whole world. I've
never known real happiness till I met you. You have
changed me into another person — you and Sandy and
Little Billee.

' Oh, 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,

Trilby O'Ferrall.

194 TRILBY

'P.S. — When it has all blown over and settled again,
if it ever does, I shall come back to Paris, perhaps, 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 some-
what trivial expression of her sorrow.

He guessed how Trilby, so childishly impulsive and de-
monstrative in the ordinary intercourse of friendship, 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 renewed.

And then, feeling wretched, they went and silently
lunched together at the Cafe de l'Odeon, where the
omelets were good and the wine wasn't blue.

Late that evening they sat together in the studio,
reading. They found they could not talk to each 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 excitement.

'Trilby! where is she? . . . what's become of her?
. . . She's run away ... oh ! She's written me such a

TRILBY

195

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 ? . . .'

' " TRILBY ! WHERE IS SHE?'

' I did ... as well as I could. Sandy couldn't stand
it, and cut.'

' You stuck up for her . . . you — 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 likes of me . ■ . you know she is. As . . .

ig6 TRILBY

as for her social position and all that, what degrading 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 back — I must have her
back ... do you hear ? 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 social 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 should be aivay from the world — above all that mean-
ness and paltriness ... all in his work. Social position,
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, 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.

They tried to reason with him, to make him listen, to
point out that it was not her social position alone that un-
fitted her to be his wife and the mother of his children, etc.

It was no good. He grew more and more uncontroll-
able, became almost unintelligible, he stammered so — a
pitiable sight and pitiable to hear.

' Oh ! oh ! good heavens ! are you so precious

TRILB Y

197

immaculate, 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 trampling
under foot. . . . 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 ff>
Billee, quite unconscious,
was undressed by Sandy f
and Madame Vinard and
put into the Laird's bed.

The doctor came, and
not 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

LA SCEUR DE LITKEBILI

1 98 TRILBY

weeks before he was out of danger, and his convalescence
was long and tedious too.

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 bitterly against the woman who had been
the cause of all this trouble, and bitterly against herself
for her injustice. It was an unhappy time for every-
body.

There was more unhappiness 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
Vibraye, in La Sarthe, lodging with some poor people
she knew — 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 was buried she was not to be found any-
where— she had disappeared, taking nothing with her, not
even her clothes — simply vanished and left no sign, no
message of any kind.

TRILBY 199

All the ponds had been searched — all the wells, and the
small stream that flows through Vibraye — 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 this. 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 and see — 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 sickening
terror and distress ; and that his poor weak wandering
wits had come back at last, bringing in their train cruel
remorse, and the remembrance of all the patient love and
kindness that had been lavished on him ; for many, 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 weeping-fit was over, when he had quite
wept himself out, he fell asleep.

And when he awoke he was conscious that another
sad thing had happened to him, and that for some

200

TRILB V

mysterious cause his power of loving had not come back
with his wandering wits — had been left behind — and it
seemed to him that it was gone for ever and ever — would
never come back again — not even his love for his mother

' HE FELL A-WEEPING, QUITE DESPERATELY '

and sister, not even his love for Trilby — where all tliat
had once been was a void, a gap, a blankness. . . .

Truly, 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.

TRILBY 20 1

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 lively. The ladies' beds
were removed to another studio on the next landing,
which was vacant, and the friends came to see Little
Billee, and make life more easy for him and his mother
and 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 herself upright
to pick her way in all this maze of trouble.

Then M. Carrel came every day to chat with his
favourite pupil and gladden Mrs. Bagot's heart. And
also Duiien, Carnegie, Petrolicoconose, Vincent, Antony,
Lorrimer, Dodor, and l'Zouzou ; Mrs. Bagot thought the
last two irresistible, when she had once been satisfied that
they were 'gentlemen,' in spite of appearances. And,
indeed, they showed themselves to great advantage ; and
though they were so much the opposite to Little Billee in
everything, she felt almost maternal towards them, and
gave them innocent, good, motherly advice, which they
swallowed avec attendrissement, 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.

202 TRILB V

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 bad 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 realise that these two polite
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 !

Svengali had gone back to Germany, it seemed, with
his pockets full of napoleons and big Havana cigars, and
wrapped iti 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 realise in his brain all the love he could
no longer feel in his heart. The sweet melodic phrase,
rendered by a master, was as wholesome, refreshing balm
to him while it lasted — as manna in the wilderness. It
was the one good thing within his reach, never to be

m
<
a

=
a.

a
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204 TRILB Y

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 bas en
haul as if they had been goddesses, even when they ac-
companied him on the piano ! He begged their pardon
for every wrong note they struck, and adopted 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 your
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.

And sometimes Taffy or the Laird would escort Mrs.
and Miss Bagot to the Luxembourg Gallery, the Louvre,
the Palais Royal ; to the Comedie Francaise once or
twice ; and on Sundays, now and then, to the English
chapel in the Rue Marbceuf. It was all very pleasant ;
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 Vinard to wait, and her mother (a cordon
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 invalid ?

TR1LB Y 205

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 return 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 Billee 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 unforeseen.
Pazienza !

Then at length one day — it was a fine, sunny, showery
day in April, by the bye, and the big studio window was
open at the top and let in a pleasant breeze from the
north-west, 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 downward — 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
colour 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.

2o6 TRILB V

He had a faint hope that he should feel sorry at part-
ing 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
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 departing without
them, and almost felt as if they must follow by the next
train, and go and cheer him up in Devonshire, and them-
selves too.

They did not yield to this amiable weakness. Sorrow-
fully, arm-in-arm, with trailing umbrellas, they recrossed
the river, and found their way to the Cafe de l'Odeon,
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 farewell
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 was to rest and lie
fallow for a few months, and recruit his lost strength and

SORROWFULLY. ARM IN ARM

208 TRILB V

energy, that he might follow up his first and well-deserved
success, which perhaps contributed just a little to his
recovery.

Many of my readers will remember his splendid debut
at the Royal 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 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 criterion
whatever of a picture's real merit. But this picture is
well known to all the world by this time, and sold
only last year at Christie'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 probably
destined to live for ever, 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 masters
of his own craft. But his fame filtered quickly down
to those immediately beneath, and through these to wider

TRILB V 209

circles. And there was quite enough of opposition and
vilification and coarse abuse of him to clear it of any
suspicion of cheapness or evanescence. What better
antiseptic can there be than the philistine's deep hate ?
what sweeter, fresher, wholesomer music than the sound
of his voice when he doth so furiously rage ?

Yes ! That is ' good production ' — as Svengali would
have said — ' C'est un cri du cceur.'

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 ! humour, 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 Santley — Sims
Reeves — Lablache !

:io TRILBY

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 windows to bar — and tales
to carry, and the pasha's confidence and favour and pro-
tection to win ? Even that 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 o.T him like water off a duck's back, both
praise and blame.

It was a happy summer for Mrs. Bagot, a sweet com-
pensation for all the anguish of the winter that had gone
before, with her two beloved children together 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 fiercely-jealous maternal heart.

And his affection for her seemed to grow 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 reopened,
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.

TRILBY 211

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, and bore his blushing
honours 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 wras brown
— as brown ! . . .

And if he no longer found the simple country
pleasures, the junketings and pic-nics, 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 preoccu-
pied and distressed him — the numbness of his affections.
He could be as easily demonstrative to his mother and
sister as though nothing had ever happened to him —
from the mere force of a sweet old habit — even more so,
out of sheer gratitude and compunction.

But alas ! he felt 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 con-
stantly 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.

212 TRILBY

It was as though some part of his brain where his
affections were seated had been paralysed, 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 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 whether 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
caresses to his mother and sister, and clung to them
more than ever ; and became more considerate of others
in thought and 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
pleasure to the humblest.

Also, his vanity about himself had become as nothing,
and he missed it almost as much as his affection.

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.

2 + 2=4, also 2x2=4: that peculiarity was no
reason why 4 should be conceited ; for what was 4 but a
result, either way ?

Well, he was like 4- — just an inevitable result of
circumstances over which he had no control — a mere
product or sum ; and though he meant to make himself
as big a 4 as he could (to cultivate his peculiar foumess),
he could no longer feel the old conceit and self- com-

TRILBY 213

placency ; and they had been a joy, and it was hard to
do without them.

At the bottom of it all was a vague, disquieting un-
happincss, 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 morning
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 famous
painter, alias Little Billee !

PART FIFTH

Little Billeb

An Interlude

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down ;

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ;

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,

And, though the eye may sparkle yet, 'tis where the ice appears.

' Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
Through midnight hours 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 beneath.'

WHEN Taffy and the Laird went back to the studio in
the Place St. Anatole des Arts, and resumed their
ordinary life there, it was with a sense of desolation and
dull bereavement beyond anything they could have
imagined ; and this did not seem to lessen as the time
wore on.

They realised for the first time how keen and
penetrating and unintermittent 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

TRILBY 215

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 simple,
clever, affectionate, constant, and sincere, like Trilby and
Little Billee ! Then the lamentable hole their disappear-
ance 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 l'Zouzou no longer came so often, now
that the charming Little Billee and his charming mother
and still more charming sister had gone away — nor
Carnegie, nor Antony, nor Lorrimer, nor Vincent, nor the
Greek. Gecko never came at all. Even Svengali 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 — with all its sound and its souvenirs locked up
inside — a kind of mausoleum ! a lop-sided coffin, trestles
and all ! So it went back to London by the ' little
quickness,' just as it had come !

Thus Taffy and the Laird grew quite sad and mopy,
and lunched at the Cafe de 1'Odeon every day— till the
goodness of the omelets palled, and the redness of the

2i6 TRILBY

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 respectably, 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 waiter ! — 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 Panatellas, which
costs twenty-five centimes — five sous — 2^d. !

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 Galiguanrs 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 Rue Marbceuf!

Indeed, by the end of the summer they had sunk into
such depths of demoralisation that they felt they must
really have a change ; and decided on giving up the
studio in the Place St. Anatole des Arts, and leaving Paris
for good ; and going to settle for the winter in Diisseldorf,
which is a very pleasant place for English 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 Kermesse,
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.

DEMORALISATION

I ma}- 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 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
I tab- !

So he went and painted his cardinals and his pifferari
in Algiers, and Taffy joined him there, and painted
Algerian Jews — just as they really are (and didn't sell

218 TRILBY

them) ; and then they spent a year in Munich, and then
a year in Dlisseldorf, and a winter in Cairo, and so on.

And all this time, Taffy, who took everything an
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, modest though they were,
that no happier young 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, change,
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 preparation, let us
hope, for the ultimate survival of the fittest.

And among the many glories of this particular period
two names stand out very conspicuously — for the im-
mediate 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 boys, whom it
soon became the fashion to bracket together, to compare
and to contrast, as one compares and contrasts 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

TRILB V

219

has been done in England during the last thirty years, in
oils, in water colour, in black and white.

They were both essentially English and of their own
time ; both absolutely original, receiving their impressions
straight from nature itself; uninfluenced by any school,
ancient or modern, 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 im-
mense fat wallowing pink
papa ? An ineffable charm
of poetry and refinement, of
pathos and sympathy and
delicate humour combined, an
incomparable ease and grace
and felicity of workmanship
belong to each ; and yet in

their work are they not as wide apart as the poles
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 arduously ; both
had regularly -featured faces of a noble cast and most
winning character ; both had the best and simplest

FRED WALKER

each

220 TRILBY

manners in the world, and a way of getting themselves
much and quickly 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 innocence ! '

'Ask him!'

' Ask him yourself! '

Thus Papelard and Bouchardy, 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 attrac-
tive qualities and more condonable faults, than Little

TRILBY 221

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 unfinished
work, endless studies, hung on his studio walls. Every-
thing else was as nice as it could be — the furniture, 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 Collard and Collard.

That immortal canvas, the ' Moon-Dial ' (just begun,
and already commissioned by Moses Lyon, the famous
picture-dealer), lay on his easel.

No man worked harder and with teeth more clinched
than Lictle Billee when he was at work — none rested or
played more discreetly when it was time to rest or play.

The glass on his mantelpiece was full of cards of
invitation, reminders, pretty mauve and pink and lilac
scented notes ; nor were coronets wanting on many of
these hospitable little missives. He had quite overcome
his fancied aversion for bloated dukes and lords and the
rest (we all do sooner or later, if things go well with us) ;
especially for their wives and sisters and daughters and
female cousins ; 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 sympathetic women who haven'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 dilet-
tante of Eros — the dainty shepherd who dwells ' dans le
pays du tendre ! ' — and stops there !

222

TRILBY

1 ''■''' • I ; '

ii, m m

The woman flatters and the man confides — and there
is no danger whatever, I'm told — and I'm glad !

One man loves
his fiddle (or,
alas ! his neigh-
bour's some-
times) 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 sym-
metry, its neat-
ness, its colour
— - its delicate
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 innocent
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 exotic names :

PLATONIC LOVE

TRILB Y

viol, viola, viola d' amorc, 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 /Eolian 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 themselves
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 bohemian
brothers of the brush for being something of a tuft-hunter
—most unjustly. But nothing gives such keen offence
to our unsuccessful brother, bohemian or bourgeois, as our
sudden intimacy with the so-called great, the little lords
and ladies of this little world ! Not even our fame and
success, and all the joy and pride they bring us, are so
hard to condone — so embittering, 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 achievement, so
crowning a glory, as all that !

' A dirty bit of orange-peel,
The 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 persist-
ently, resolutely, hospitably harried than this young ' hare
with many friends ' by people of rank and fashion.

224

TRILB V

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 stink of the same : yes, they bear wealth
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 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 perchance 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 favour ceased to be an honour
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

TRILBY 225

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 painting 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
unduly bared necks and shoulders that made him sick)
patronised him and gave him good advice, and told him
to emulate Mr. Buckner both in his genius and his
manners — since Mr. Buckner was the only ' gentleman '
who ever painted for hire ; and they promised him, in
time, an equal success !

Here and there some sweet old darling specially
enslaved him by her kindness, grace, knowledge of life,
and tender womanly sympathy, like the dowager Lady
Chiselhurst — or some sweet young one, like the lovely
Duchess of Towers, by her beauty, wit, good-humour, and
sisterly interest in all he did, and who in some vague,
distant manner constantly reminded him 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 patronising, nothing but
deference and warm appreciation and delicate flattery,
from men and women alike — and where the aged
Venuses, whose prime was of the days of Waterloo, went
with their historical remains duly shrouded, like ivy-
mantled ruins (and in the middle distance !).

55
i— i
►J

TRILBY 227

So he actually grew tired of the great before they had
time to tire of him — incredible as it may seem, and
against nature ; and this saved him many a heart-burn-
ing ; and he ceased to be seen at fashionable drums or
gatherings of any kind, except in one or two houses
where he was especially liked and made welcome for his
own sake ; such as Lord Chiselhurst's in Piccadilly, where
the ' Moon-Dial ' found a home for a few years before
going to its last home and final resting-place in the
National Gallery (R.I.P.) ; or Baron Stoppenheim's in
Cavendish Square, where many lovely little water-colours
signed W. B. occupied places of honour on gorgeously-
gilded walls ; or the gorgeously-gilded bachelor rooms of
Mr. Moses Lyon, the picture-dealer in Upper Conduit
Street — for Little Billee (I much grieve to say it of a
hero of romance) was an excellent man of business.
That 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 splendours, it was also his
pleasure now and again to study London life at its lower
den — the eastest end of all. Whitechapel, the Minories,

TRILB V

the Docks, Ratcliffe Highway, Rotherhithe, soon got to
know him well, and he found much to interest him and
much to like among their denizens, and made as many
friends there among ship -carpenters, excisemen, long-
shoremen, jack-tars, and what not, as in Bayswater and
Belgravia (or Bloomsbury).

THE MOON-DIAL

He was especially fond of frequenting sing-songs, or
' free-and-easies,' where good hard-working fellows met of
an evening to relax and smoke and drink and sing, round
a table well loaded with steaming tumblers and pewter
pots, at one end of which sits Mr. Chairman in all his
glory, and at the other ' Mr. Vice.' They are open

TRILBY 229

to any one who can afford a pipe, a screw of tobacco,
and a pint of beer, and who is willing to do his best and
sing a song.

No introduction is needed ; as soon as any one has
seated himself and made himself comfortable, Mr. Chair-
man 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 singing face.
Per'aps, Mr. Vice, you'll be so very kind as juster harsk
the aforesaid gentl'man to oblige us with a 'armony.'

Mr. Vice then puts it to the new-comer, who, thus
appealed to, simulates a modest surprise, and finally
professes his willingness, like Mr. Barkis ; then, clearing
his throat a good many times, looks up to the ceiling,
and after one or two unsuccessful starts in different keys,
bravely sings ' Kathleen Mavourneen,' let us say — perhaps
in a touchingly sweet tenor voice :

'Kathleen Mavourneen, the gry dawn is brykin,
The 'orn of the 'unter is 'eard 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 estima-
tion, 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

230 TRILB Y

round. Then the chairman says, ' Your 'ealth and song,
sir ! ' And drinks, and all do the same.

Then Mr. Vice asks, ' What shall we ave the pleasure
of saying, sir, after that very nice 'armony ? '

And the blushing vocalist, if he knows the ropes,
replies, ' A roast leg o' mutton in Newgate, and nobody 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 'ear's.
And Mr. Vice says to the singer : ' You call, sir. Will
you be so good as to call on some other gen'l'man 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 l'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 individuals. For he
made no close friends among men, and ruthlessly snubbed
all attempts at intimacy — all advances towards an affection
which he felt he could not return ; and more than one
enthusiastic admirer of his talent and his charm was

■<
S

a
<

K
o

a
B

232 TRILB Y

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 as on the
yacht of a millionaire — on the crowded knifeboard of an
omnibus as on the box-seat of a nobleman's drag —
happier ; he liked 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 breadth
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
who 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 genuine 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 endeavour ;
oases of sweet water and cooling shade, where the food
was good and plentiful, though the tents might not be of

TRILB Y 233

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 coming match of the season ; the
coming ducal conversion to Rome ; the last elopement in
high life — the next ! and where the music was that of
the greatest music-makers that can be, who found rest
and play in making 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-insensibility, 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 them-

234 TRILB Y

selves 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 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 honours.

And of all these notable London houses none was
pleasanter than that of Cornelys, the great sculptor, and
Little Billee was such a favourite 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 delight), and
spaghetti, and a ponlet roti, which is such a different affair
from a roast fowl ! and salad, which Taffy was allowed to
make and mix himself; and they all smoked just where
they sat, the moment they had swallowed their food — as
had been their way in the good old Paris days.

That dinner was a happy one for Taffy and the Laird,
with their Little Billee apparently unchanged — as demon-
strative, 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 such 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 forgathering and communion of long-parted
friends, the pangs of Little Billee's miserable mind-malady
would shoot through him like poisoned arrows.

05
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>36 TRILB Y

He would catch himself thinking how fat and fussy
and serious about trifles Taffy had become ; and what 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 behave more caressingly to
them, more genially and demonstratively than ever — for he
knew it was all a grewsome physical 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, misbegotten
shrimp, an imp — an abortion — no bigger, by the side of
the herculean Taffy or the burly Laird of Cockpen, than
sixpennorth o' halfpence : a wretched little overrated
follower of a poor trivial craft — a mere light amuser !
For what did pictures matter, or whether they were good
or bad, except to the triflers who painted them, the
dealers who sold them, the idle, uneducated, purse-proud
fools who bought 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 marvelled at
the happiness of his lot, and almost found it in their
warm affectionate hearts to feel a touch of envy !

TRILB V 237

Oddly enough, in a brief flash of silence, ' entre la
poire et le fromage,' they heard a foreigner at an
adjoining table (one of a very noisy group) exclaim :
' Mais quand je vous dis que j'l'ai entendue, moi, La
Svengali ! et meme qu'elle a chante l'lmpromptu 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 any more.

' Svengali ! how funny that name should turn up ! I
wonder what's become of our Svengali, by the way ? '
observed Taffy.

' I remember his 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 liqueured
up, and went to Cornelys's three in a hansom —

' 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 his 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 from
the world ; and now he never stirs out of his house and

0
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M
o

TRILB Y 239

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 festive house than his in London,
winter or summer — no lordlier host than he — no more
irresistible hostesses than Lady Cornelys and her lovely
daughters ; and if ever music had a right to call itself
divine, it was there you heard it — on late Saturday
nights during the London season — when the foreign
birds of song come over to reap their harvest in London
Town.

It was on one of the most brilliant of these Saturday
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,
powerful 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 magnificently attired that they
felt inclined to sink them on their bended knees as in the
presence of some overwhelming Eastern royalty — and
were only prevented from doing so, perhaps, by the
simple, sweet, and cordial graciousness of her welcome.

And whom should they be shaking hands with next
but Antony, Lorrimer, and the Greek — with each a beard
and moustache of nearly five years' growth !

But they had no time for much exuberant greeting,
for there was a sudden piano crash — and then an immedi-
ate 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 famous opera — to
the delight of all but a few very superior ones who had
just read Mendelssohn's letters (or misread them) and

240 TRILB Y

despised Italian 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 favourite song —

• Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment ;
Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie . . .'

with quite a little drawing-room voice — but quite as
divinely as he had sung ' Noel, 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 pianoforte 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 agreeable pastime, a
mere emotional delight, in which the intellect has no
part ; and also as a well -deserved humiliation to all
virtuosi who play so charmingly that they make their
listeners forget the master who invented 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 they
were playing — playing in absolute perfection, in absolute
forc-etfulness 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

TRILBY 241

scored ; and by the earnestness of your rapt and tranced
immobility, and the stony, gorgon-like intensity of your
gaze, you rebuked the frivolous — as you had rebuked
them before by the listlessness and carelessness of your
bored resignation to the Signorina Patti's trills and fiori-
tures, or M. Roucouly's pretty little French mannerisms.

And what added so much to the charm of this
delightful concert was that the guests were not packed
together sardine-wise, 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-communion,
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 exult in beautiful
English over the inferiority of English literature, English
art, English music, English everything else.

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
tJiem. 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

Z4z TRILBY

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 make 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 intellectual London circles,
and snub the philistine to rights.

Then, very late, a tall, good-looking, swarthy foreigner
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 ' Void Glorioli,' till Glorioli
got on your nerves. And beautiful ladies, ambassadresses,
female celebrities of all kinds, fluttered up to him and
cajoled and fawned ; — 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 singing, 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 ;

TRILBY 243

but even the earnestest of all, caught, surprised, rapt,
astounded, shaken, tickled, teased, harrowed, tortured,
tantalised, aggravated, seduced, demoralised, degraded,
corrupted into mere naturalness, forgot to dissemble their
delight.

And Sebastian Bach (the especially adored of all
really great musicians, and also, alas ! of many priggish
outsiders who don't know a single note and can't
remember a single tune) was well forgotten for the night ;
and who were more enthusiastic than the two great
players who had been playing Bach that evening ? For
these, at all events, were broad and catholic and sincere,
and knew what was beautiful, whatever its kind.

It was but a simple little song that Glorioli sang, as
light and pretty as it could well 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 mere sensuous delight
of writing them, as though I had just composed them
myself:

' Bonjour, Suzon, ma fleur des bois !
Es-tu toujours la plus jolie ?
Je reviens, tel que tu me vois,

D'un grand voyage en Italie !
Du paradis j'ai fait le tour —
J'ai fait des vers — j'ai fait 1'amour. . . .

Mais que t'importe !
Je passe devant ta maison :
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 mon depart ?

244 TRILB Y

Qui part trop tot revient trop tard.

Mais que m'importe ?
Je passe devant ta maison :

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 singers. And
nobody sang any more that night ; for Glorioli 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 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 the Seraphim !) — hailed from Spain,
where he was junior partner in the great firm of Morales,
Perales, Gonzales, and Glorioli, wine merchants, Malaga.
He 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 — if it be not libellous to say so
— but there was no voice like his anywhere in the world,
and no more finished 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 expressions
of delight and gratitude that the great singer took a real
fancy to him (especially when he was told that this
fervent boyish admirer was one of the greatest of English

N
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55

»46 TRILB V

painters) ; and as a mark of his esteem, privately con-
fided to him after supper that every century two human
nightingales were born — only two ! a male and a female ;
and that he, Glorioli, 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 rossignolle, if there is such a word ? '
inquired Little Billee.

' Ah ! mon ami ... it was Alboni, till la petite
Adelina Patti came out a year or two ago ; and now it
is La Svengali!

' La Svengali ? '

' Oui, mon fy ! 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 better
voice than Madame Alboni ? '

' 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 honour ! 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 ! (^a 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 ! '

A HUMAN NIGHTINGALE

248 TRILB Y

' You arc talking of La Svengali, I bet,' said Signor
Spartia.

' Oui, parbleu ! You have heard her ? '

' Yes — at Vienna last winter,' rejoined the greatest
singing-master in the world. 'J 'en suis fou ! helas ! I
thought / could teach a woman how to sing, till I heard
that blackguard Svengali's pupil. He has married her,
they say ? '

' That blackguard Svengali ! ' exclaimed Little Billee
. . . ' why, that must be a Svengali I knew in Paris — a
famous pianist ! a friend of mine ! '

1 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
1 doch,' or ' nein,' or ' soh ! ' not a word of English or French
or Italian, though she sings them, oh ! but divinely ! It is
( il bel 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 octaves
— 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 composer,

TRILB Y 249

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 ? '

' You're joking,' said Little Billee.

' My vrent, I neffer choke ven I talk apout zinging.
You vill hear her zum tay yourzellof, and you vill acree
viz me zat zere are two classes of beoble who zing. In
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.
Chullien kifs her ten sousand bounts ! '

' I wonder, now ? Why, that must be the woman
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

250 TRILBY

ruffian, who accompanied her on a guitar, and a little
fiddling gypsy fellow. She was a handsome woman, with
hair down to her knees, but stupid as an owl. She sang
at Siloszech's, and all the fellows went mad and gave
her their watches and diamond 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 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 German-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 suppose ! '

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 !

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 recitations by celebrated
actors. Noble dukes hobnobbed with low comedians ;
world-famous painters and sculptors sat at the feet of
Hebrew capitalists and aitchless millionaires. Judges,
cabinet ministers, eminent physicians 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
smelt the freshness of the dark summer dawn. And as

TRILBY 2; i

Taffy and the Laird walked home to the Old Hummums
by daylight, they felt that last night was ages ago, and
that since then they had forgathered with ' much there
was of the best in London.' And then they reflected that
' much there was of the best in London ' were 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 between 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 ! '

\A ;hl ' ^"* Wk':li

CUP-AND-BALL

TRILBY 253

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 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 ! Little
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 Marner, and Darwin's
Origin of Species (which he was reading for the third
time), and Punch and other literature of a lighter kind
to beguile him on his journey, he felt rather bitterly how
happy he could be if the little spot, or knot, or blot, or
clot which paralysed 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 seaside 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

254 TRILBY

that wretched little kill -joy cerebral occlusion, as sound,
as healthy, as full of life and energy, as he had ever been !

And when he wasn't reading Silas Marncv, or looking
out of window at the flying landscape, and watching
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,
indiscriminately !

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 grandchildren do) ; a con-
sumptive curate, on the opposite corner 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
Billee made himself useful and pleasant to his fellow-
travellers in many ways — so many 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 princekin could
possibly be, who was dressed so fashionably, and yet

TRILBY 255

went second class, and took such kind thought of others ;
and they wondered at the happiness 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 which, 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 all but gave him the thrill he thirsted for !
Another 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 kingdom 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 of
infinite space (so bewildering and garish and diffused)
into one pure virgin heart, to be filtered there ! and lets it
out again, duly warmed, softened, concentrated, subli-

256 TRILBY

mated, focused 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 '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?

' How pretty Alice has grown, mother ! quite lovely,
I think ! and so nice ; but she was always as nice as she
could be ! '

So observed Little Billee to his mother that evening
as they sat in the garden and watched the crescent 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 like
of me ! She's for some splendid young Devon squire,
six foot high, and acred and whiskered within an inch of
his life ! . . .'

' Ah, my darling Willie ! you are not of those who ask

TRILBY

'■57

for love in vain. . . . If you only knew how she believes
in you ! She almost 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 for ever. 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 break-

SWEET ALICE

fasted 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
understand that any woman who had eyes to see should
ever quite condone the signs of physical weakness in man,
in favour of any mental gifts or graces whatsoever.

Little Greek that he was, he worshipped the athlete,
and opined that all women without exception — all

258 TRILBY

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 clinging.

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 come to you, my lad ! ' with the likes of
Taffy . . . but Taffy hadn't even whistled ! 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 edge of the cliff — within sight of Alice's bedroom
window. It was called ' the Honeymooners' 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 sapphire-blue,

TRILBY 259

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 boy — 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 sapient,
affectionate eyes — and whose name, like that of so many
dogs in fiction and so few in fact, was simply Tray. For
Little Billee was much given to monologues out loud, and
profuse quotations from his favourite bards.

Everybody quoted that particular poem either mentally
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

26o TRILB V

the nascent (and crescent) Robert Browning ; or people
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 bottom. 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 interrogation,
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,

' Alice, Alice, Alice ! '

And Tray uttered a soft, cooing, nasal croon in his
head register, though he was a barytone dog by nature,
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 ; perhaps she would
marry me if I asked her — there's no accounting for
tastes ! — and I know enough of myself to know that I

TRILB V

261

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 bigeer
than a pin's point !

' That's a small thing to cause such a lot of
wretchedness, 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
diamonds ! But diamond or grain of
sand, only Alice has got that small
thing ! Alice alone, in all the world,
■{i has got the healing- touch for me

MAY HEAVEN GO WITH HEK !

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

. y my little clot melted

away like a snowflake

on the lips, and I was

262 TRILB Y

my old self again, after many years — and all through that
kiss of a pure woman.

1 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 time together, we three ! . . .

' But your mistress is a parson'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 believe
me, who think so differently ? And if she does, 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
honesty 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 never
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 clasped hands, her cloak and
skirts falling in happy folds about her : I see it all !

1 And underneath, that poor, sweet, soft, pathetic thing
of flesh and blood, the eternal woman — great heart and
slender brain — for ever enslaved or enslaving, never self-

TRILB Y 263

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 thou thy sister when she prays."

' She believes her poor little prayer will be heard 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 doesn't she believe,
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 Jude^,
where they didn't know everything ! A costly kind of
clearance ! And then there was Noah, who ivasrit 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 happened 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 any-
thing ; 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

264 TRILB V

taradiddles, as it is for a pretty child not to believe in
Little Red Riding-hood, and Jack and the Beanstalk, and
Morgiana and the 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. 1
will kneel by her side if ever I have the happy chance,
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? I will
respect even that belief, and do my little best to keep it
alive for ever. 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.

1 But then, there's Alice's papa — and that's another
pair of sleeves, as we 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 ?

(And now, I regret to say, the reticent Little Billee is
going to show his trusty four-footed friend the least
attractive side of his many-sided nature, its modernity,
its dreary scepticism — his own unhappy portion of la
maladie dn Steele). . . .

' But then, what will he say ? What allowances will
he make for a poor little weak-kneed, well-meaning waif

SO MUCH FOK ALICE, TKAY '

of a painter-fellow like me, whose only choice lay between
Mr. Darwin and the Pope of Rome, and who has chosen
once and for ever — 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. I 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 who 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 ! "

266 TRILB V

' He's no Jephthah ; he's made of flesh and blood,
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, ambitious,
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 parson ! It's
about as short a royal road as any to that enviable dis-
tinction— 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 with his bread and butter. But a
parson must quarrel with those who don't believe as he
tells them !

TRILB Y 267

' Yet a few years' thinking and reading and experience
of life, one would suppose, might possibly just shake his
faith a little (just as though, instead of being parson, he
had been tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, gentleman, apothe-
cary, ploughboy, thief), and teach him that many of these
beliefs are simply childish — and some of them very
wicked indeed — and most immoral.

' It is very wicked and most immoral to believe, or
affect to believe, and tell others to believe, that the unseen,
unspeakable, unthinkable Immensity we're all part and
parcel of, source of eternal, infinite, indestructible life and
light and might, is a kind of wrathful, 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 — ab ovo
— ab 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 gentleman
into the bargain).

'Just think of it, Tray — a finger in every little paltry
pie — an eye and an ear at every keyhole, 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
enough — 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

268 TRILB Y

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 dishonour — nothing
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 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 grewsome, dark age of faith !
They couldn't draw a bit — no perspective, no anatomy,
no chiaro-oscuro ; and it's a woful image they managed to
evolve for us out of the depths of their fathomless
ignorance, 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, this precious image!
Only the very foolish little birds are frightened into good
behaviour. 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 straw it's stuffed
with (the naughty little birds in black, especially), and
pick up what they want under its very nose, and thrive
uncommonly well ; and the good ones fly away out of

TRILBY 269

sight ; and some day, perhaps, find a home in some
happy, useful fatherland 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 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, you 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 martyrdom
would we not endure, you and I, with a happy 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 pre-
ferment, 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 maredial 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 cleverly

27o TRILBY

told to be in these matters, and so cleverly tells us — and
so seldom is himself on 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,
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
Jiim !

' If he cheats, he cheats for the sake of very worldly
things indeed — tithes, honours, influence, power, authority,
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 cheating best.

' So, whether he cheats or not, I'll —

' Confound it ! what would old Taffy do in such a case,
I wonder ? . . .

' Oh, bother ! it's no good wondering what old Taffy
would do.

TRILBY 271

' Taffy never wants to marry anybody's daughter ; he
doesn't even want to paint her ! He only wants to paint
his beastly ragamuffins and thieves and drunkards, and
be left alone.

' 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
shindy, 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
humour. In point of fact Taffy's a gentleman — poor
fellow ! ct puis voila I

' 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 !

1 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 myself 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, I'll

272 TRILB Y

never think any harm of any parson any more . . . never,
never, never ! '

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,
nor such a listener), he again apostrophised the dog Tray,
who had been growing somewhat inattentive (like the
reader, perhaps), in language more beautiful than ever :

' Oh, to be like you, Tray — and secrete love and good-
will from morn till night, from night till morning — like
saliva, without effort ! with never a moment's cessation of
flow, even in disgrace and humiliation ! How 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 kindness never ! Lucky dog that you
are !

TRILBY 273

" 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 brackish tho' they be,
So 'midst this withered waste of life those tears would flow to me !

1 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 before the
bard who wrote them had fallen ; like Lucifer, son of the
morning ! Have you ever heard of Lord Byron, 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 Humpty Dumpty ! 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, worldly, a
trifle pompous, and authoritative more than a trifle ; not
much given to abstract speculation, and thinking fifty
times more of any sporting and orthodox young country
squire, well-inched and well-acred (and well-whiskered),
than of all the painters in Christendom.

' " When Greeks joined Greeks, then was 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.

' 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 erased about painting, you

274 TRILB Y

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 treachery.

' :! Who shall put forth on thee,
Unfathomable sea ! *' '

' Who indeed ! ' answered Little Billee, quite agreeing.
' 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 the painter, asked, sternly —

' \\ "hat book's that you've got in your hand, Willie ? '

' A — a — it's the Origin of Species, by Charles Darwin.
I'm very f-f-fond of it. I'm reading it for the 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 London
— especially of an evening, William ? '

Then stammered Little Billee, all self-control forsaking
him —

' I d-d-don't attend any place of worship at all —
morning, afternoon, or evening. I've long given up going

TRILB Y 275

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, unfortunately, 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 relate. When they
emerged into the open, the parson was quite white, and
the painter 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 menace —
' sir, you're — you're a — you're a thief sir, a tJiief ! You're
trying to rob Die 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 another
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 at one
receding figure, then at the other, disconsolate^

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

YOU RE A TUIJCF, Sill!

P »

TRILB Y 277

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 seriously 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 — big doubts
resolved themselves into downright negations. He quar-
relled with his bishop ; he quarrelled 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 belongings to London, where at least
he could 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 matters
(and even temporal) ; of impressing women, especially,
with his commanding presence, his fine sonorous voice,
his lofty brow, so serious and smooth, his 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
Positivist 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 archdeacon, who
very cleverly clutched at and caught her and saved her
for himself just as she stood shivering on the very brink
of Rome ; and they were neither happy nor unhappy
together — un menage bourgeois, ?ii beau ni laid, ni bon ni
inauvais. And thus, alas ! the bond of religious sympathy,

278 TRILB Y

that counts for so much in united families, no longer
existed between father and daughter, and the heart's
division divided them. Ce que dest que de nous ! . . .
The pity of it !

And so no more of sweet Alice with hair so brown.

PART SIXTH

' Vraiment, la reine aupres d'elle etait laide

Quand, vers le soir,
Elle passait sur le pont de Tolede

En corset noir !
Un cbapelet du temps de Charlemagne

Ornait son cou. . . .
Le vent qui vient a travers la tnontagne

Ale rendra foil 1

' Dansez, chantez, villageois ! la nuit tombe. . . .

Sabine, un jour,
A tout donne — sa beaute de colombe,

Et son amour —
Pour un anneau du Comte de Saldagne,

Pour un bijou. . . .
Le vent qui vient a travel's la montagne

Jil'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 appearance,
and not too fat — -not too much ongbongpwang, 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.

28o TRILBY

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 Oucntin Durward, this D'Artagnan was a Scotsman :

' Ah, wasna he a Roguey, this piper of I )undee ! '

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, and Co. are not historical by this
time, I should like to know who are !

Well, so are Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee — tout
ce gu'il y a de plus Jiistorique I

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 balmorally booted, or neatly spatted (or
whatever was most correct at the time), are breakfasting
together on coffee, rolls, and butter at a little round table
in the huge courtyard of an immense caravanserai, 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
cloth coat and breeches and black silk stockings, and a
large metal chain round his neck and chest, looks down
like Jove from a broad flight of marble steps — as though
to welcome the coming guests, who arrive in cabs and
railway omnibuses through a huge archway on the boule-
vard ; or to speed those who part through a lesser arch-
way opening on to a side street.

TRILBY 281

' Bon voyage, messieurs et dames ! '

At countless other little tables other voyagers are
breakfasting or ordering breakfast ; or, having breakfasted,
are smoking and chatting and looking about. It is a
babel of tongues — the cheerfullest, busiest, merriest 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 recognised (and been recognised
by) half a dozen old fellow- Crimeans, of unmistakable
military aspect like himself; and three canny Scotsmen
have discreetly greeted the Laird ; and as for Little
Billee, he is constantly jumping up from his breakfast and
running to this table or that, drawn by some irresistible
British smile of surprised and delighted female recogni-
tion : ' 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, lavatories,
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 these placards (and the most fantasti-
cally 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 Bashibazoucks, Rue St. Honore !

TRILB V 283

Our friends had only arrived the previous night, but
they had managed to secure stalls a week beforehand.
No places were any longer to be got for love or money.
Main- 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 snow-ball that had
been rolling all over Europe for the last two years —
wherever there was 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
(commc autrefois), crossed the sunshiny boulevard into the
shade, and went down the Rue 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 pastrycook's, they finished the
stumps of their cigars as they looked at the well-re-
membered 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 rlium de la Jamaique.

After this they sauntered through the Tuileries
Gardens, and by the quay to their favourite Pont des Arts,
and looked up and down the river — comvie 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

284

TRILBY

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!).

Not 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 paix, 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 9a — 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 toujour s qa!

' A LITTLE PICTURE OF THE THAMES '

And as they gazed and gazed, each framed unto him-
self, mentally, a little picture of the Thames they had just
left — and thought of Waterloo Bridge, and St. Paul's, and

TRILR V 283

London — but felt no home-sickness whatever, no desire to
go back in a hurry !

And looking down the river westward there was but
little change.

On the left-hand side the terraces and garden of the
Hotel de la Rochemartel (the sculptured entrance of
which was in the Rue de Lille) still overtopped the
neighbouring houses and shaded the quay with tall trees,
whose lightly-falling leaves yellowed the pavement for at
least a hundred yards of frontage — or backage, rather ;
for this was but the rear of that stately palace.

' I wonder if l'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 plentifulness, were so
much more picturesque than English ones, and consti-
tuted a far more poetical and romantic link with the
past ; partly on account of their beautiful, high-sounding
names !

' Amaury de Brissac de Roncesvaulx de la Roche-
martel-Boissegur ! what a generous mouthful ! Why, the
very sound of it is redolent of the twelfth century 1 Not
even Howard of Norfolk can beat that ! '

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 Spectator — and which our three enthusiasts
already knew by heart), and beginning 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.

286 TRILB Y

' Ah ! they managed these things better in France,
especially in the twelfth century, and even the thirteenth ! '
said the Laird. ' Still, Howard of Norfolk isn't bad at a
pinch — fate de myoo!' he continued, winking at Little
Billee. And they promised themselves 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 respected ;
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 courtyard 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 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, tous ! Et Monsieur Litrebili,

TRILBY 287

done ! il a grandi ! ' etc., etc. ' Mais vous 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 Re tour des trois Angliches — cinq ans apres !

She told them all the news : about Bouchardy ;
Papelard ; Jules Guinot, who was now in the Ministere 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 ; Isidore, who, alas ! had gone to
the bad — ' perdu par les femmes ! un si joli garcon, vous
concevez ! ca 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 c.a ? 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 beautiful
interment, messieurs ! Five thousand people, in spite of
the rain ! Car il pleuvait averse ' And M. le Maire and

288 TRILB Y

his adjunct walking behind the hearse, and the gendarmerie
and the douaniers, and a bataillon 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
ga ! n'est-ce-pas, Vinard ? '

' Dame, oui, ma biche ! j'crois bien ! It might have
been Monsieur le Maire himself that one was interring in
person ! '

' Ah, 9a ! voyons, Vinard ; thou'rt not going to
compare 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
there — 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
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 a member of the
Institute on the other, during which les trois Angliches
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 dc bric-a-brac, ' vous verrez ca ! '

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 ;

^--'•^L ■■'■■■• ^ •;• • v '• '■ ' :

290 TRILB Y

' jc comprends ca ! et vous verrez ce que vous verrcz ! '
Then they must come and drink once more again the
drop, and inspect her magasin de bric-a-brac.

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
unswept, 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 opposite ;
the floor a disgrace !

All over the walls were caricatures in charcoal and
white chalk, with more or less incomprehensible legends ;
very vulgar and trivial and coarse, some of them, and
pointless for trots Angliches.

But among these (touching to relate) they found,
under a square of plate-glass that had been fixed on 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 engrossed on imper-
ishable 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 cherissant naguere,
Encadra d'elle (et d'un amour sincere)
Ce souvenir charmant qu'un caprice inspira —
Qu'un souffle emportera !

' J'etais jumeau : qu'est devenu mon frere ?
Helas ! Helas ! L' Amour nous egara.

PAUVKK '1K1LBV

2Q2 TR1LB V

L'Eternite nous unira, j'espere ;
Et nous ferons comme autrefois la paire
Au fond d'un lit bien chaste oil mil ne troublera
Trilby — qui dormira.

' O tendre ami, sans nous qu'allez-vous faire ?
La porte est close oil Trilby demeura.
Le 1'aradis est loin . . . et sur la terre
(Qui nous fut douce et lui sera legere)
Tour trouver nos pareils, si bien qu'on cherchera —
Beau chercher Ton aura ! '

Taffy drew a long breath into his manly bosom, and
kept it there as he read this characteristic French
doggerel (for so he chose to call this touching little
symphony in ere and ra). 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, I wouldn't have let
you give me up — not for any 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 he 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 gaiety, her innocent kissings
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 ! '

TRILB Y 293

' Hang it all ! ' he mentally ejaculated, ' I wish to
goodness I'd married her myself ! '

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, dispassionately, 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 charmingly
suggestive of Trilby as this little masterpiece of a true
artist, this happy fluke of a happy moment. It was
Trilbyness itself, as the Laird thought, and should not be
suffered to perish.

They took the keys back to Madame Vinard in silence.

She said : ' Vous 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 partis ;
et Monsieur Guinot qui a compose Vipitaphe. Pauvre
Trilby ! qu'est-ce qu'elle est devenue ! comme elle etait
bonne fille, hein ? et si belle ! et comme elle etait vive
elle etait vive elle etait vive ! Et comme elle vous
aimait tous bien — et surtout Monsieur Litrebili — n'est-ce
pas ? '

Then she insisted on giving them each another liqueur-
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 making it a big
business.

'Voyez cette pendule ! It is of the time of Louis

294 TRILB Y

Onze, who gave it with his own hands to Madame de
Pompadour (!). I bought it at a sale in '

1 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 a bargain at '

' Combiang ? ' said the Laird.

' Ah, ca, c'est trois cents francs, monsieur. Mais '

' Je prong ! ' said the Laird.

' Et voici les souliers qui vont avec, et que '

'Je pr '

But here Taffy took the Laird by the arm and 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 peu
difficile, vous savez — couper un mur comme ca ! On
parlera au proprietaire si vous voulez, et ca pourrait peut-
etre s'arranger, 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 Trois Mauvais
Ladres, and found that about twenty yards of a high wall

TRILB V

295

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,

& ml l

!'!'#

"JE PRONG

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 accumulation of years — a queer old

296 TRILB Y

faded pleasance, with wasted bowers and dilapidated
carved stone benches and weather-beaten discoloured
marble statues — noseless, armless, earless fauns and
hamadryads ! And at 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 Pavilion de Flore,
that must have been quite beautiful a hundred years 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 shameless,
but, oh ! how charming to the imagination of the
nineteenth century ! And right through the ragged lawn
(where lay, upset in the long dewy grass, a broken doll's
perambulator by a tattered Polichinelle) went a desecrat-
ing 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 Trois Mauvais Ladres ! '
(The new street of the three 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 wrere ! '

' 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 lofty old brick wall ! and now this melancholy
little peep into the once festive past, the touching 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

TRILB Y 297

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 pleasantly smell-
ing of oil-paint — Rosa Bonheur's ' Labourage Nivernais,'
Hebert's ' Malaria,' Couture's ' Decadent Romans.'

And in the formal dusty gardens were the same
pioupious and zouzous still walking with the same nounous,
or sitting by their sides on benches by formal ponds with
gold and silver fish in them — and just the same old
couples petting the same toutous and loulous ! x

Then they 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 unappetis-
ing, turned their stomachs. So they contented them-
selves with warmly greeting le pere Trin, who was quite
overjoyed to see them again, and anxious 1o 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
l'Odeon. But Taffy said, in his masterful way, ' Damn
the Cafe de l'Odeon ! '

And hailing a little open fly, they drove to Ledoyen'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 musketeers, lords of

1 Glossary. — Pioupiou {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 nondescript French lapdog, of
no breed known to Englishmen (a regular little beast !) Loulou — a
Pomeranian dosr — not much better.

298 TRILB Y

themselves and Lutetia, bcati possidenlcs ! — 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 amusing than the Luxembourg Gardens ;
the lively and irrepressible spirit of Dodor seemed to per-
vade 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
Hampstead Heath on an Easter Monday) must not be
blamed for once more quoting his favourite 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 walked along the boulevards till they came to a
haberdasher's shop of very good and prosperous appear-
ance, 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
recognising Dodor !

The gay Dodor, Dodor rirrcsistiblc, quite unembarrassed
by his position, was exuberant in his delight at seeing
them again, and introduced them to the patron and his

o
z
o

w
q

F .'11

3oo TR1LB Y

wife and daughter, Monsieur, Madame, and Mademoiselle
Passefil. And it soon became pretty evident that, in spite
of his humble employment in that house, he was a great
favourite in that family, and especially with mademoiselle.

Indeed, Monsieur Passefil invited our three heroes to
stay and dine then and there ; but they compromised
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 especially 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 impecuniosity, he had managed to impress them
with the fact that in marrying a Rigolot de Lafarce she
was making a very splendid match indeed !

His brother-in-law, the Honourable 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 actually called on the Passefil
family, and they had fallen prostrate before such splend-
our ; and no wonder, for Mrs. Jack Reeve was one of the
most beautiful, elegant, and fashionable women in London,
the smartest of the smart.

' And how about l'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

TRILBY 301

that he's proud, or me either ! but he's a sub-lieutenant in
the Guides — an officer ! Besides, his brother'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 arranged 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 once
used to come in, and their fair riders, and the two jolly

3o2 TRILB Y

English clowns ; and the beautiful nobleman with the long
frock-coat and brass buttons, and soft high boots, and
four-in-hand whip — la diambriere.

In front of this was a lower stand for the orchestra.
The circus itself was filled with stalls — stalks d'orchestre.
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 estrade,
were waiting for the band.

Little Billee looked round, and recognised 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 ambassador 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 anticipation.
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 ' uti air connu, sans accom-
pagnement,' and afterwards other airs, including the
' Nussbaum ' of Schumann (for the first time in Paris, it
seemed). Then a rest of ten minutes ; then more csdrdds ;
then the diva would sing ' Malbrouck sen va-t'en guerre,'

TRILBY

3°3

of all things in the world ! and finish up with
impromptu de Chopin, sans paroles.'

Truly a somewhat incongruous 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 recognised
in him their old friend Gecko.

Just as the clock struck,
Svengali, in irreproachable even-
ing dress, tall and stout and
quite splendid in appearance,
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 accustomed to strains of
this kind during the last twenty years, but they were
new then, and their strange seduction was a surprise as
well as an enchantment.

Besides, no such band as Svengali's had ever been
heard ; and in listening to this overture the immense
crowd almost forgot that it was a mere preparation for a
great musical event, and tried to encore it. But Svengali

GECKO

3<H TRILB V

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 window 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 towards 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 glistening white teeth ; her
gray eyes looked straight at Svengali.

Her face was thin, and had a rather haggard expression,
in spite of its artificial freshness ; but its contour was
divine, and its character so tender, so humble, so touch-
ingly simple and sweet, that one melted at the sight of
her. No such magnificent or seductive apparition has ever
been seen before or since on any stage or platform — not
even Miss Ellen Terry as the priestess of Artemis in the
late laureate's play, The Cup.

The house rose at her as she came down to the front ;

TRILB Y 305

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.
7/ 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 eyes 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 time —
conducting her, in fact, just as if she had been an
orchestra herself:

' Au clair de la lune,

Mon ami Pierrot !
Prete-moi ta plume

Pour ecrire un mot.
Ma chandelle est morte . . .

Je n'ai plus de feu !
Ouvre-moi ta porte

Pour l'amour de Dieu ! '

"AC CLAIR DE LA LUNE

TRILD V 307

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, richness,
freshness, that it seemed to be pouring itself out from all
round ; its intonation absolutely, mathematically pure ;
one felt it to be not only faultless, but infallible ; 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 !

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 sensa-
tion. 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

3°8

TRILB Y

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 gaiety and
grace of impishness of Pierrot
and Columbine idealised into
frolicsome beauty and holy
innocence, as though they
were performing for the saints
in Paradise — a baby Colum-
bine, with a cherub for clown !
The dream of it all came over
you for a second or two —
a revelation of some impos-
sible golden age — priceless —
never to be forgotten ! 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
delicate inner

delight,
laughter.

Then she
earth, and

OUVRE-MOI TA PORTE

POUR L' AMOUR DE DIEU !

came back to
saddened and
veiled and darkened her voice
as she sang the verse for the
third time : and it was a

TRILB Y 309

great and sombre tragedy, too deep for any more tears ;
and somehow or other poor Columbine, forlorn and be-
trayed and dying, out in the cold at midnight — sinking
down to hell, perhaps — 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 Trilby bowed to front and right and left in her simple
dcbonnaire fashion. It was her usual triumph. It had
never failed, whatever the audience, 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 him-
self to be fast asleep and in a dream, and was trying 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
dove-like 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.

3io TRILBY

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 hear 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
Svengali's singing of the ' Nussbaum,' and saw her ; and
saw the Laird sitting by him, and Taffy, their eyes riveted
on Trilby, and knew for certain that it was no dream this
time, and his joy was almost a pain !

She sang the ' Nussbaum ' (to its heavenly accompani-
ment) as simply as she had sung the previous song.
Every separate note was a highly-finished gem of sound,
linked to the next by a magic bond. You did not
require to be a lover of music to fall beneath the spell of
such a voice as that ; the mere melodic phrase had all
but ceased to matter. Her phrasing, 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 I am the singer; for I am Svengali ; and
you shall hear nothing, see nothing, think of nothing, but
Svengali, Svengali, Svengali!'

It was the apotheosis of voice and virtuosity ! It was
' il bel canto ' come back to earth after a hundred years

TRILBY 311

— 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 stream-
ing eyes at the imagined spectacle of a simple German
damsel, a Madchen, a Fraulein, just verlobte — a future
Hausfrau — sitting under a walnut-tree in some suburban
garden — a Berlin ! — and around her, her family and her
friends, probably drinking beer and smoking long porce-
lain pipes, and talking politics or business, and cracking
innocent elaborate old German jokes ; with bated breath,
lest they should disturb her maiden dream of love ! And
all as though it were a scene in Elysium, and the Fraulein
a nymph of many-fountained 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 had 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 how I 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

312 TRILBY

of things, the very heart of them, and their pathetic evan-
escence, came back with a tenfold clearness — that
heavenly glimpse beyond the veil ! And with it a crush-
ing 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 hysterical),
and the first part of the concert was over, and 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 — astonishment, enthusiasm,
ecstatic delight !

But our three friends found little to say — for what
they felt there were as yet no words !

Taffy and the Laird looked at Little Billee, who seemed
to be looking inward 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 appeared to be out of the common blissful,
though his eyes were swimming still, for his smile was
almost idiotic 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 ' Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre.'

She began it quite lightly and merrily, like a jolly

TRILB Y

march ; in the middle of her voice, which had not as yet
revealed any exceptional compass or range. People
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 !
Ne sais quand reviendra !
Ne sais quand reviendra ! '

The mironton, mirontaine
was the very essence of high

'MALBROUCK S'EN VA-T'EN GUERRE'

martial resolve and
heroic self-confi-
dence ; one would
have led a forlorn
hope after hearing
it once !

' II reviendra-z a Paques —

Mironton, mironton, mirontaine .'
II reviendra-z a Paques. . . .
Ou ... a la Trinite ! '

314 TRILBY

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 ! '

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 monte,

Si haut qu'elle peut monter ! '

Oh ! How one's heart went with her ! Anne ! Sister
Anne ! Do you see anything ?

' Elle voit de loin son page —

Mironton, mironton, mirontaine !
Elle voit de loin son page,
Tout de noir habille ! '

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 nouvelles apportez ? '

And here Little Billee begins to weep again, and so
does everybody else ! The mironton, mirontaine, is an
agonised wail of suspense — poor bereaved duchess ! — poor
Sarah Jennings ! Did it all announce itself to you just
like that ?

TRILBY 315

All this while the accompaniment had been quite
simple — just a few obvious ordinary chords.

But now, quite suddenly, without a single modulation
or note of warning, down goes the tune a full 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 :

1 Aux nouvelles que j'apporte —

Mironton, mironton, mirontaine !
Aux nouvelles que j'apporte,
Vos beaux yeux vont pleurer ! '

Richer and richer grows the accompaniment. The
mironton, mirontaine, becomes a dirge !

' Quittez vos habits roses —

Mironton, mironton^ mirontaine !
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 impressively
that the news will ring for ever in the ears and hearts of
those who hear it from La Svengali's lips :

' Le Sieur Malbrouck est mort —

Mironton, mironton, mirontaine !
Le Sieur — Malbrouck — est — mort !
Est mort — et enterre ! '

And thus it ends quite abruptly !

And this heartrending tragedy, this great historical
epic in two dozen lines, at which some five or six thousand
gay French people are sniffling and mopping their eyes
like so many Niobes, is just a common old French comic

' AUX NOUVELLES QUE j'APPORTE,

VOS BEAUX YEUX VONT PLEURER ! '

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 im-
pressive as that which occurs at a burial when the hand-
ful 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 nearly five minutes,
standing amid a sea of flowers. . . .

Then comes her great and final performance. The

TRILBY 317

orchestra swiftly plays the first four bars of the bass in
Chopin's Impromptu (A flat) ; and suddenly, without
words, as a light nymph catching the whirl of a double
skipping-rope, La Svengali breaks in, and vocalises 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 the 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 favoured 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
warbles that long, smooth, lilting, dancing laugh, that
shower of linked sweetness, 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 pictures, could ever do the like ! So that
the tears that are shed out of all these many French
eyes are tears of pure, unmixed delight in happy remi-

3i 8 TRILBY

niscence ! (Chopin, it is true, may have meant some-
thing quite different — a hot-house, perhaps, with orchids
and arum lilies and tuberoses and hydrangeas — but all
this is neither here nor there, as the Laird would say in
French.)

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 like 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, only quicker ! hurry, hurry ! but distinct as ever.
Loud and shrill and sweet beyond compare — drowning
the orchestra ; of a piercing quality quite ineffable ; a joy
there is no telling ; a clear, purling, crystal 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 overcome.
All through, Trilby smiles her broad, angelic smile ; her
lips well parted, her big white teeth glistening as she
gently 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 afterglow 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 — hardly more than a

a,
o
w
o

55
fa

320 TRILB Y

breath ; but such 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 courtesies !

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 laments
the clumsiness and inadequacy of this wild (though
somewhat ambitious) attempt to recall an impression
received more than thirty years ago ; to revive 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 Eolienne, and are now out
of print !

Or Theophile Gautier's elaborate rhapsody, ' Madame
Svengali — A)igc oil Femuic ? ' 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 ' her celestial form and
face.' It is enough, he says, to be simply human ! I

TRILBY 321

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 ' Svengalismus ' ; 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 abnormal-
ismus of a mere physical peculiarity, are death and
destruction to all true music ; since they place Mozart
and Beethoven, and even Jiimself, on a level with Bellini,
Donizetti, Offenbach — any Italian tune-tinkler, any
ballad-monger of the hated Paris pavement ! and can
make the highest music of all (even his own) go down
with the common French herd at the very first hearing,
just as if it were some idiotic refrain of the cafe cJiantant !

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 Rue St. Honore, as the Cirque des Bashibazoucks
emptied itself of its over-excited audience.

They went arm-in-arm, as usual ; but this time Little
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

322 TRILBY

restored to him, after five long years of separation ; his
heart was overflowing with affection for them, too full to
speak just yet ! Overflowing, 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 hugged 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 mistake.
He was himself again at last, after five years, and wide
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 regret
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
already crowded, the hum of lively talk was great, and
' La Svengali ' was in every mouth.

TRILB Y 323

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 mentioned 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. Her face
was narrower and longer, her eyes 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 recognised the peculiar
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 per-
formance 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.

He seemed transcendently happy and elate — incompre-
hensibly 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 his

324 TRILBY

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 realised 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 woman 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
hearing of her ; beautiful as she was 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 bowing in the
face of all that splendid tumult they had called forth and
could not quell, stung and tortured and maddened him so
that he could not lie still, but got up and raged and
rampaged up and down his hot, narrow, stuffy bedroom,
and longed for his old familiar brain-disease to come back

TR1LB Y

325

and narcotise his trouble, and be his friend, and stay with
him till he died !

Where was he to fly for relief from such new memories
as these, which would never cease ; and the old memories,

' AND THE REMEMBRANCE OF THEM — HAND IN HAND*

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 of her face and the
sound of her voice would be a craving — a daily want —
like that of some poor starving outcast for warmth and
meat and drink ?

And little innocent, pathetic, ineffable, well-remembered

326 TRILB Y

sweetnesses of her changing face kept painting themselves
on his retina ; and incomparable tones of this new thing,
her voice, her infinite voice, went ringing 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 imagination,
which can idealise so well, and yet realise, 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 ! what's the matter with you ? ' exclaimed
the good Taffy, as Little Billee tumbled into his room,
calling out :

1 Oh, Taffy, Taffy, I've g-g-gone mad, I think ! ' And
then, shivering all over, and stammering incoherently, 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 the re-
currence 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 told Taffy this was
the best thing that could happen. The boy had always
been a highly- strung, emotional, over -excitable, over-

TRILB Y 327

sensitive, and quite uncontrolled mammy 's-darling, 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 everything
seemed to go round.'

' So have I.'

! You ? What for ? '

' The very same reason.'

' Whatr

' I was just as fond of Trilby as you were. Only she
happened to prefer you!

' What ! ' cried Little Billee again. ' You were fond
of Trilby ? '

' I believe you, my boy ! '

' In love with her? '

' I believe you, my boy ! '

' She never knew it, then ! '

' Oh yes, she did.'

' She never told me, then ! '

'Didn't she? That's like her. / told her, at all
events. I asked her to marry me.'

' Well — I am damned ! When ? '

' That day we took her to Meudon, with Jeannot, and
dined at the garde champetre's, and she danced the cancan
with Sandy.'

328

TRILBY

And she refused you ? '

' Well — I am — —
' Apparently so.'

' Well, I Why on earth did she refuse you? '

' Oh, I suppose she'd already begun to fancy you, my
friend. II y en a toujours un autre I '

" I BELIEVE YOU, MY BOY ! '

' Fancy me — prefer me — to you ? '

'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

TRILB Y 329

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 ca ! I took it lying down you see.'

' Does the Laird know ? '

' No ; and I don't want him to — nor anybody else.'

1 Taffy, what a regular downright old trump you are ! '

' Glad you think so ; anyhow, 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 ! Oh, curse all officious
meddling with other people's affairs ! Oh ! oh ! . . .'

' There you go again ! What's the good ? And
where do I come in, my friend ? / should have been no
better 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

33o TRILB Y

I've ever thought of you — 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 I'm 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, restored to
his balance, cut back to his own bed just as the day was
breaking.

PART SEVENTH

'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 thee at will.'

NEXT morning our three friends lay late abed, and break-
fasted in their rooms.

They had all three passed 'white nights' — even the
Laird, who had tossed about and pressed a sleepless
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 seductive,
that the desire to hear it once more became nostalgic —
almost an ache !), certain bits and bars and phrases of the
music she had sung, unspeakable felicities and facilities of
execution ; sudden exotic warmths, fragrances, tender-
nesses, graces, depths, and breadths ; quick changes from
grave to gay, from rough to smooth, from great metallic
brazen clangours to soft golden suavities ; all the varied

332 TRILBY

modes of sound we try so vainly to borrow from vocal
nature by means of wind and reed and string — all this
new ' Trilbyness ' kept echoing in his brain all night (for
he was of a nature deeply musical), and sleep had been
impossible to him.

' As when we dwell upon a word we know,
Repeating, 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, un-
hackneyed, unsuspected beauties such as he had never
dreamed of in any earthly music.

It had become a wonder, and he knew not why !

They spent what was left of the morning at the
Louvre, and tried to interest themselves in the ' Marriage
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 through 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 — coilte que coiite ! 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 La Svengali's
debut in the morning papers — a chorus of journalistic

TRILBY 333

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
week 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 afternoon 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 season.
They went in, and strolled about here and there, and
listened to the band, which 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 re-
cognised 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 Taffy,
whom he took to his mother — the lady in black — and
introduced to the other ladies, the younger of whom
(strangely unlike the rest of her countrywomen) was so
lamentably, so pathetically plain that it would be brutal

334 TRILBY

to attempt the cheap and easy task of describing her. It
was Miss Lavinia Hunks, the famous American million-
airess, 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.

lie looked extremely distinguished, for one thing, in
his beautiful Guides' uniform, and was most gracefully
and winningly polite. He 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 delight 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 — dcgringole 7 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 marriage — un parti convenable — for
he was ' tres joli garcon, Dodor ! bonne tournure — et tres
gentiment ne ! C'est tres ancien, les Rigolot — dans le
Poitou, je crois — Lafarce, et tout ca ; tout a fait bien !'

It was difficult to realise that this polished and discreet
and somewhat patronising young man of the world was
the jolly dog who had gone after Little Billee's hat on all
fours in the Rue Vieille des Trois Mauvais Ladres and
brought it back in his mouth — the Caryhatide !

Little Billee little knew that Monsieur le Due de la

TRILBY 335

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 pleurait 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 impayable ! '

Zouzou kept these blackguard bohemian reminiscences
for the imperial circle alone — to which it was suspected
that he was secretly rallying himself. Among all out-
siders— 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 Rome.'

On lui aurait domic le bon Dieu sans confession — 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 honour 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 pleasure it had
given him to meet them again, and the hope he had of
some day shaking their hands in London.

33& TRILB Y

As the friends walked back to Paris together, it tran-
spired that ' the Man of Blood ' had been invited by
Madame Duchesse Mere (Maman Duchesse, as Zouzou
called her) to dine with her next day, and meet the
Hunkses at a furnished apartment she had taken in the
Place Vendome ; for they had let (to the Hunkses) the
Hotel de la Rochemartel in the Rue 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 Boissegur de la
Rochemartel).

'II ne fait pas gras chez nous a present — je vous
assure ! ' Madame Duchesse Mere 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 deformed
— 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 kindness — and
even then — dishonours 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 for
ever ! He ought to be cut by his fellow-men — sent to
Coventry — to jail — to penal servitude for life ! He ought

wmmmmmm»

"maman duchesse'

338 TRILB Y

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
your beautiful old twelfth-century dukedoms, with a
hundred yards of back frontage opposite the Louvre, on a
beautiful historic river, and a dozen beautiful historic
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, particeps
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 I and now
let's go and dine with Dodor — . . . anyhow Dodor's
young woman doesn't marry him for a dukedom — or even
his ' de ' — mats bien pour ses beaux yeux ! and if the
Rierolots 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 ! '

' '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,

TRILBY 339

musing on the general contrariness of things, and imagin-
ing what splendid little Wynnes, or Bagots, or M'Allisters
might have been ushered into a decadent world for its
regeneration if fate had so willed it that a certain magni-
ficent and singularly gifted grisette, etc. etc. etc. . . .

Mrs. and Miss Hunks passed them as they walked
along, in a beautiful blue barouche with C-springs — un
' Juiit-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 daylight — a quickly
fleeting joy ; 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 sightseers like
themselves, Little Billee right in front — in the road.

Presently a magnificent open carriage came by — more
magnificent than even the Hunkses', with liveries 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 big cigar
of the Havana.

34o

TRILB Y

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
beneath, and thus made to

THE CUT DIKECT

look twice their size ; but in spite of all such disfigurements
she was a most splendid 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.

TRILBY 341

And as they passed he heard them both snigger — she
with a little high-pitched flippant snigger worthy of a
London barmaid.

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 :

1 It's not Trilby — I swear ! She could never have
done that — it's not in her ! and it's another face alto-
gether— I'm sure of it ! '

Taffy 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 demoralised, and
wanted not to dine at Passefil's. He wanted to go
straight home 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 sister, for his old home.

When they went back to the hotel to dress (for 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 Devon-
shire 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.

342 TRILBY

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 himself
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 sin-
cerity) that never palled ; and even his silence was charm-
ing— 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 Billee. On the other hand, there
lay deep down under Taffy's surface irascibility and
earnestness about trifles (and beneath his harmless vanity
of the strong man), a long-suffering patience, a real
humility, a robustness 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 gladiator-
like poise of his small round head on his big neck and
shoulders, his huge deltoids and deep chest and slender
loins, his clean-cut ankles and wrists, all the long and
bold and highly-finished athletic shapes of him, that

TRILB Y 343

easy grace of strength that made all his movements 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 nobile 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 Cockpen, who rose to the occasion, and
surpassed himself in geniality, drollery, and eccentricity of
French grammar and accent. Monsieur Passefil was also
a droll in his way, and had the quickly familiar, jocose
facetiousness that seems to belong to the successful
middle-aged bourgeois all over the world, when he's not
pompous instead (he can even be both sometimes).

Madame Passefil was not jocose. She was much
impressed by the aristocratic splendour 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 Monsieur Theodore, and he was offici-
ally known as Monsieur Rigolot.

344

TRILB V

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 eyes off
Monsieur Theodore, whom she had never seen in evening
dress before. It must be owned that he looked very nice

— more ducal than even

ii :■■

Zouzou — and to be
Madame de Lafarce en
perspective, and the future
owner of such a brilliant
husband as Dodor, was

1 PETIT ENFANT, j'AIMAIS D'UN AMOUR TENDRE

MA MERE ET DIEU SAINTES AFFECTIONS !

PUIS MON AMOUR AUX FLEURS SE FIT ENTENDRE,
PUIS AUX OISEAUX, ET PUIS AUX PAPILLONS !

TRILBY 345

enough to turn a stronger little bourgeois head than
Mademoiselle 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 convent — innocent
as a child, no doubt ; and it was felt that Dodor had
done better for himself (and for his 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 overlooking the
boulevard, where cigarettes were allowed, and there was
music. Mademoiselle Ernestine laboriously 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 songs
of innocence (of which he seemed to have an endless
repertoire) to his future wife's conscientious accompani-
ment— to the immense delight, also, of all his future
family, who were 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 week older the
papers were full of nothing else.

Madame Svengali — ' la grande Trilby,' — was the only

346 TRILB Y

daughter of the honourable 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 Ouartier Latin of Paris — une vie
de bohcme !

She was the Venus Anadyomene from top to toe.

She was blanche comme ncige, avcc un volcan dans le
cccar.

Casts of her alabaster feet could be had at Brucciani'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 Pencock) had
bought the house containing the flat containing the studio
containing the wall on which it was painted, had had the
house pulled down, and 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 purchase.)

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
Yokohama.' (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 courtyard of the hotel, which was crowded, as usual.

TR1LB Y 347

Little Billce went into the hotel post-office to despatch
a note to his mother. Sitting sideways there at a small
table and reading letters was Svengali — of all people in
the world. But for these two and a couple of clerks the
room was empty.

Svengali looked up ; they were quite close together.

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 his way to the door, called
him ' verfiuchter Schweinhund,' and deliberately spat in
his face.

Little Billee was paralysed for a second or two ; then
he ran after Svengali, and caught him just at the top of
the marble stairs, and kicked him, and knocked off his
hat, and made him drop all his letters. 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 crowd round them in a minute, including
the beautiful old man in the court suit and gold chain,
who called out :

' Vite ! vite ! un commissaire 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 ! '

348 TRILD Y

Svengali had not reckoned on Taffy's being there ; he
recognised him at once, and turned white.

Taffy, who had dogskin 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 forward by it, and
then from side to side, Svengali holding 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 :

' Lache — grand lache ! che fous enferrai mes temoins ! '

1 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 before I leave. I'm sorry,
but you really mustn't spit, you know — it's not done. I
will come to you whenever 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 pleasant 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 inharmonious gesture, not an
infelicitous line — the very poetry of violence, and almost
its only excuse !

350 TRILBY

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 military gentleman, and the majordome in
velvet, and the two clerks who had seen the original
insult. And all that was required of Taffy and his
friends for the present was ' their names, prenames, titles,
qualities, age, address, nationality, occupation,' etc.

' C'est une affaire qui s'arrangera autrement, et autre
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 believe
Svengali would show fight ; 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 effectiveness 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

TRILBY 351

made to flow by 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 Tooral-
oorals, 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.

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 Svengali'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 says 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, McAllister declares it isn't.'

' Oh, what trouble ! So tJiafs 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 re-
member that she had a beautiful voice in speaking.'

352 TRILBY

' 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 irresistible !
I wonder you're not in love with her yourself. 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 Willy's — that bitter
time in Paris '

And Mrs. Bagot began to cry, and Taffy forgave.
1 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 1 My poor
boy's infatuation will only increase. W'hat 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
recognises that important fact. Besides, she cut him dead
in the Champs Elysees — 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 ! '

1 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 ? '

' I SUPPOSE YOU DO ALL THIS KIND OF THINO FOR MERE
AMUSEMENT, MR. WYNNE?'

'Oh yes, I interfered — everybody interfered! It was
all right, I assure you. No bones were broken 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 himself
again, and painted endless studies of rocks and cliffs and
sea — and Taffy painted with him, and was very content.

2 A

354 TRILBY

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 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 neighbour-
hood, including ' the poor dear marquis ' (one of whose
sons was in Taffy's old regiment), were civil and hospit-
able also to the two painters — and Taffy got as much
sport as he wanted, and became immensely popular.
And they had, on the whole, a very good time till
Christmas, and a very pleasant Christmas, if not an ex-
uberantly merry one.

After Christmas Little Billee insisted on going back
to London — to paint a picture for the Royal Academy ;
and Taffy went with him ; and there was dulness 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-windows.

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 assembled
in front of the windows of the Stereoscopic Company in

TRILBY 355

Regent Street, gazing at presentments of Madame Svengali
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 represents 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 neighbour), 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 ? '

' Oh 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 between
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 I 5 th 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.

He had not seen him for five years — not since the

356 TRILBY

Christmas festivity in the Place St. Anatole, when they
had sparred together after supper, and Svengali'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 procession of
' tout Paris,' he knew him directly, and all his hate flared
up ; he cut him dead, and made his wife do the same.

Next morning he saw him again in the hotel post-
office, looking small and weak and flurried, and apparently
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 had 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, suddenly and quite unexpectedly, had
come upon the scene that apparition so loathed and
dreaded of old — the pig-headed Yorkshireman — the huge
British philistine, the irresponsible bull, the junker, the
ex-Crimean, Front-de-Bceuf, who had always reminded
him of the brutal and contemptuous sword-clanking, spur-
jingling aristocrats of his own country — ruffians that
treated Jews like dogs. Callous as he was to the woes of
others, the self-indulgent and highly-strung musician was
extra sensitive about himself — a very bundle of nerves —
and especially sensitive to pain and rough usage, and by
no means physically brave. The stern, choleric, invincible
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
demoralised him that he had never recovered from it.

TRILBY 357

He was thinking about it always — night and day —
and constantly dreaming at night that he was being
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, jealous
kind of affection that was a source of endless torment to
him ; for indelibly graven in her heart, which he wished
to occupy alone, was the never-fading image 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,
whom 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 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 up and
struck Svengali on the neck near" the collar-bone, and

358 TRILBY

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, looking dazed and stupefied,
as in a waking dream.

Gecko had been disarmed, but as Svengali recovered
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
attended Svengali described the wife as being quite
imbecile, 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 debut,
Svengali was allowed by the doctor to go to the theatre,
but he was absolutely forbidden to conduct. His grief
and anxiety at this were uncontrollable ; he raved like a
madman ; and Monsieur J was almost as bad.

Monsieur J had been conducting the Svengali

band at rehearsals during the week, in the absence 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 accompaniments to La
Svengali's songs) many times before. Her repertoire was
immense, and Svengali had written these orchestral scores
with great care and felicity.

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360 TRILB Y

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 rehearsed 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 begin 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
instruments.

Eyes were constantly being turned to the empty box,
and people wondered what royal personages would appear.

Monsieur J took his place amid immense applause,

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 success ;
when 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.

TRILB Y

361

Some one came into the empty 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 : ' Good God ! Look ! look ! '

' HAST THOU FOUND ME, O MINE ENEMY ? '

Then Little Billee and the Laird got up and looked.

And Svengali for a moment glared at them. And the
expression of his face was so terrible with wonder, rage,
and fear that they were quite appalled — and then he sat
down, still glaring at Taffy, the whites of his eyes show-
ing at the top, and his teeth bared in a spasmodic grin
of hate.

Then thunders of applause filled the house, and turn-
ing round and seating themselves, Taffy and Little Billee

362 TR1LB Y

and the Laird saw Trilby being led by J down the

platform, between the players, to the front, her face smil-
ing 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,

1 Mais chantez done, madame — pour l'amour de Dieu,
commencez done — commencez ! '

She turned round with an extraordinary expression of
face, and said,

'Chanter? pourquoi done voulez-vous que je chante,
moi ? chanter quoi, alors ? '

' Mais " Ben Bolt," parbleu — chantez ! '

' Ah — " Ben Bolt ! " oui — je connais ca ! '

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 .

' J'ai que j'aime mieux 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.

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364 TR1LB V

She looked all round, and down at herself, and fingered
her dress. Then she looked up to the chandelier with a
tender, sentimental smile and began —

' Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt ?
Sweet Alice with hair 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, cat-calls, cock-crows.

She stopped and glared like a brave lioness, and called
out — ■

' Ou'est-ce que vous avez done, tous ! tas de vieilles
pommes cuites que vous etes ! Est-ce qu'on a peur de
vous ? ' 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 splendour
of her voice were so extraordinary — its tone so pathetic-
ally 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.

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'ow ! why
don't yer sing in tune ? '

' Sing in tune ! ' cried Trilby. ' I didn't want to sing
at all — I only sang because I was asked to sing — that

TRILBY 365

gentleman asked me — that French gentleman with the
white waistcoat ! I won't sing another note ! '

' Oh, yer won't, won't yer ! 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 performance ever
heard out of a human throat !

'Svengali ! Svengali !' shrieked poor Monsieur J ,

gesticulating towards the box where Svengali was sitting,
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 was forgotten.

She stood vacantly looking at everybody and every-
thing— the chandelier, Monsieur J , Svengali in his

box, the people in the stalls, in the gallery — and smiling
as if the noisy scene amused and excited her.

1 Svengali ! Svengali ! Svengali ! '

The whole house took up the cry, derisively. Monsieur

J led Madame Svengali away ; she seemed quite

passive. That terrible figure of Svengali still sat, immov-
able, watching his wife's retreat— still smiling his ghastly
smile. All eyes were now turned on him once more.

Monsieur J was then seen to enter his box with

366 TRILB Y

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 platform, bow-
ing and scraping to the audience, as pale as death, and
called for silence, the gentleman in evening dress by his
side ; and this person explained that a very 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 behaviour.

He added that the money would be returned at the
doors, and begged the audience to disperse quietly.

Taffy, with 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 the 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 outside, and

insisted on being taken to Monsieur J 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 partially
undressed, and some men bending over him, doctors
probably.

That was the last they saw of Svengali.

Then they were taken to another door, and Monsieur

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368 TRILB Y

J ■ came out, and Taffy explained who they were, and

they were admitted.

La Svengali was there, sitting in an armchair by the
fire, while several of the band stood round gesticulating,
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 ! '

Then she caught sight of the Laird, and kissed him ;
and then she recognised 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
moustache ! What's the matter ? Why are you all
dressed in black, with white cravats, as if you were going
to a funeral ? 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 l'Hotel de Normandie, dans le Haymarket.
On va vous y conduire, madame ! ' said Monsieur J .

' Oui — c'est ga ! ' said Trilby — ' Hotel de Normandie
— mais Svengali — ou est-ce qu'il est ? '

' Helas ! madame — il est tres malade ! '

' Malade ? Qu'est-ce qu'il a ? How funny you look,
with your moustache, 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

TRILB Y 369

— never, never ! Where are we now, clear Little
Billee ? '

Monsieur J seemed to have lost his head. He

was constantly running in and out of the room, distracted.
The bandsmen began to talk and try to explain, 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 charge
imposed on her. It was all explained to her that it must
be so. That Madame Svengali, the greatest singer in
Europe and an old friend of her tenant's, had suddenly
gone out of her mind from grief at the tragic 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 probably recover her faculties after a night's
rest. A doctor was sent for from close by, and soon

2 B

37 o TRILB Y

Trilby appeared, with the Laird, and her appearance and
her magnificent sables impressed Mrs. Godwin, the land-
lady— brought her figuratively on her knees. Then
Taffy, 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 Jewess and Svengali's
relative), distracted by the news of her master's death,
had gone 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 was not present on that memorable
occasion, and has written this inadequate and most in-
complete description partly from hearsay and private
information, partly from the reports in the contemporary
newspapers.

Should any surviving eye-witness of that lamentable
fiasco read these pages, and see any 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 acknowledged 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 because the present scribe is
better qualified (by his opportunities) 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 kindness, even more than to his own personal

TRILBY 371

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 diagnosis !

Her wits had apparently not come back, and she
seemed in no way to realise 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 old
friends ! Ah ! j'aime tant ca — 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 song. -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 weak 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.

' 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 ! '

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THREE NICE CLEAN ENGLISHMEN

• 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 something
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

TRILBY 373

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 fingers and made you cry ! don't you remember ? '

' Struck me ! rehearsing ? — made me cry ! what are
you talking about, dear Taffy ? Svengali never struck me !
He was kindness itself — always ! and what should I
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
never to sing in a theatre again ! How they howled !
and there was Svengali in the box opposite, laughing at
me. Why was I taken there ? and why did that funny
little 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. Peters-
burg— lots of places ? '

' What nonsense, dear — you're thinking of some one
else ! / never sang anywhere ! I've 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

374 TRILB Y

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 you — 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 Victoires.'

' How long have you been going about with Svengali ? '

'Oh, months, years— I forget. I was very ill. He
cured me.'

' 111 ! 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 careful enough with
him. I was crazed ! Don't you remember writing to
me there, Taffy — through Angele Boisse ? Such a sweet
letter you wrote ! I know it by heart ! And you 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 address 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 work-
man's cap and blouse and trousers and walked all the
way to Paris without saying anything to anybody. I
didn't want anybody to know ; I wanted to escape from

TRILB V

375

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 tipsy, 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 talking 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.

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

'PCENA PEDE CLAUDO

I got

376 TR1LB Y

comfortable it was in there, with 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 his 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 Trois 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 it was
that I knew him 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
Rue Tireliard, but he'd moved to the Rue 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, 1
suppose! 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 days and two nights ! 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
with him. He said he would devote his whole life to me,
and took a small room for me, next to his.

' I stayed with him there a week, 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 ;

TRILB Y

377

together

and no

and then we went away to Germany
one was a bit the wiser.'

'And did he marry you ? '

1 Well — no. He couldn't, poor fellow ! He'd already
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 always
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 ivas German,
poor dear ! And then
Gecko joined us, and
Marta.'

' Who's Marta ? ' 'the old studio'

373 TRILBY

1 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 ? '

' Oh ! he played at concerts, I suppose — and all that.'

' Did you ever hear him ? '

' Yes. Sometimes Marta took me ; at the beginning,
you know. He was always very much applauded. He
plays beautifully. Everybody said so.'

' Did he never try and teach you to sing ? '

' Oh, mate ai'e ! 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 ? '

' Not that /know of! He always made out he was so
fond of me that he couldn't even look at another woman.
Poor Svengali !' (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 hardly 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 three days' walk from Vibraye 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

TRILBY 379

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 unhappy when I wouldn't eat, so I
used to force myself.

' 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 ! WJiy 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 upstairs, 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 ! "

380 TRILB Y

' And when I woke up I was so tired that 1 went to
sleep again on my own account.

' But he was very patient. Oh, dear me ! I've always
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 sup-
pose he and Gecko 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 they were — such crowds — you'd think
they'd never seen an Englishwoman 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 I felt grateful to him for many things ! Tell me
how he died ! I hope he hadn't much pain.'

They told her it was quite sudden, from heart disease.

' 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 bonnet
and shawl, and made her sit down in a big arm-chair, and
got her a foot-stool.

S5
!5

/ a

o
a

«s

W
H
S5

382 TRILB Y

She couldn't speak a word of anything but Polish and
a little German. Trilby had also picked up 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 friends 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 for ever perhaps) to
artificial melodic laws and limitations and restraints.
The long training it had been subjected to had made it
1 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, whatever she might say.

Except on the one particular point of her singing, she
had seemed absolutely sane — so, at least, thought Taffy,
the Laird, and Little Billee. And each thought to him-
self, besides, that this last incarnation of Trilbyness was
quite the sweetest, most touching, most endearing of all.
They had not failed to note how rapidly she had aged,

TR1LB V 383

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 wander-
ings from city to city all over Europe.

It was evident enough that the sudden stroke which
had destroyed her power of singing had left her physically
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 seduction 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 till she died
or recovered should be the principal business of their lives.

Both had loved her. All three, perhaps. One had

384 TRILB Y

been loved by her as passionately, as purely, as unselfishly,
as any man could wish to be loved, and in some extra-
ordinary 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 possessed every other gift and
blessing in such abundance.

' Oh, Circe, poor Circe, dear Circe, divine enchantress
that you were ! ' he said to himself, in his excitable way.
' 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 eloquently about
things as Little Billee.

As they lunched, they read the accounts of the previous
evening's events in different papers, three or four of
which (including the Times) had already got leaders
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 Madame Svengali was
* under the roof and care of Mr. William Bagot, the painter,
in Fitzroy Square.

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.

TRILB Y

385

Taffy was allowed to see Gecko, who was remanded
till the result of the post-mortem should be made public.
But beyond inquiring most anxiously and minutely after
Trilby, and betraying the most passionate concern for her,
he would say nothing, and seemed indifferent as to his
own fate.

' TAFFY WAS ALLOWED TO SEE GECKO

When they went to Fitzroy Square, late in the after-
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

2 C

?86 TRILB Y

been admitted to see her. Mrs. Godwin was much elated
by the importance of her new lodger.

Trilby had been writing to Angele 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 blanchissense de fin with her
friend. It was a kind of nostalgia for Paris, the Ouartier
Latin, her clean old trade.

This project our three heroes did not think it necessary
to discuss with her just yet ; she seemed quite unfit for
work of any kind.

The doctor, who had seen her again, had been puzzled
by her strange physical weakness, and wished for a con-
sultation with some special authority ; Little Billee, who
was intimate with most of the great physicians, 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 gaiety,
in spite of her strange and sorrowful position. But for
this it was impossible to realise that her brain was
affected in the slightest degree, except when some refer-
ence was made to her singing, and this seemed to annoy
and irritate her, as though she were being made fun of.
The whole of her marvellous musical career, and every-
thing 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 they
promised to take rooms for her and Marta on the
morrow.

Tbey told her cautiously all about Svengali and

TR1LB Y 387

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 anxiety as to what might befall him.

Next day she moved with Marta to some lodgings in
Charlotte Street, where everything was made as comfort-
able for them as possible.

Sir Oliver saw her with Dr. Thorne (the doctor who
was attending her) and Dr. Jakes Talboys.

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 account 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
drive.

On one of these occasions, as they went down Charlotte
Street, she saw a shop with transparent French blinds in
the window, and through them some Frenchwomen, with
neat white caps, ironing. It was a French blancJiisserie
de fin, and the sight of it interested and excited her so
much that she must needs insist on being put down and
on going into it.

1 Je voudrais bien parler a la patronne, si qa. ne la
derange pas,' she said.

The patronne, a genial Parisian, was much astonished

388

TRILB V

to hear a great French lady, in costly garments, evidently
a person of fashion and importance, applying to her
rather humbly for employment in the business, and show-
ing a thorough knowledge of the work (and of the

A FAIR BLANCHISSEUSE DE FIN

Parisian workwoman's colloquial dialect). Marta managed
to catch the patronnfs eye, and tapped her own forehead
significantly, and Sir Oliver nodded. So the good woman
humoured the great lady's fancy, and promised her
abundance of employment whenever she should want it.

TRILB Y 3S9

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 answer from
Angele Boisse (who was in Marseilles), and had begun to
realise how dreary the Ouartier Latin would be without
Jeannot, without Angele, without the trots AnglicJies 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 trying
to make a fool of me ! '

And Marta would betray great uneasiness — almost
terror — when she was appealed to in this way.

PART EIGHTH

' La vie est vaine :
Un peu d'amour,
Un peu de haine. . . .
Et puis — bonjour !

' La vie est breve :
Un 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 labour for six months (a sentence
which, if I remember aright, gave rise to much comment
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 Svengalis and their re-
lations 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 1'aimais
tant, je 1'aimais tant ! il n'y en a pas beaucoup comme elle,
Dieu de misere ! C'est un ange du Paradis ! '

TRILBY V)X

j>v

And not another word was to be got out of him.

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 Elberfeld, had been humorous inventions of his
own — a kind of Mrs. Harris !

He left three thousand pounds, every penny of which
(and of far larger sums that he had spent) had been
earned by ' La Svengali,' 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 admir-
ably ; she seemed bound hand and foot to Trilby by a
kind of slavish adoration, 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 afternoon, 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 brightness

392 TRILBY

when les trois Angliches were with her, and the expression
of her face was so wistful and tender for all her playful-
ness, so full of eager clinging to existence and to them, that
they felt the memory of it would haunt them for ever,
and be the sweetest and saddest memory of their lives.

Her quick, though feeble gestures, full of reminiscences
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 chatted and laughed,
bewitched them 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 chalk and pencil studies of her head which
are now so well known — all so singularly like her, and so
singularly unlike each other ! Trilby vue a 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 realise her own mis-
chance, 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 out loud,
and get up, and walk up and down, and wring her hands
at the dreadful thought of parting for ever !

394 TRTLB V

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 coffee ; 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 trembling
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 gazing (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 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 son,
rushed forward, crying, ' Oh, my poor girl, my poor girl ! '

TRILB Y

395

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.

' 1 love you now as much as I always admired you —
pray believe it ! '

OH, MY POOR GIRL ! MY TOOR CIRL !

' 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 proper person to marry your son all the time ;
and told him so again and again. It was very stupid of

396 TRILB V

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
always, night and day. Forgive a poor jealous mother.
As if any man could help loving you^or any woman
either. Forgive me ! '

' Oh, Mrs. Bagot — forgive you ! What a funny idea !
But, anyhow, you have forgiven vie, 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 anything 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
Europe ; whose lamentable illness and approaching death
were being mourned and discussed and commented upon
in every capital of the civilised world, as one distressing
bulletin appeared after another. She might have been a
royal personage 1

Mrs. Bagot knew, of course, the strange form her

TRILB Y 397

insanity had taken, and made no allusion to the flood of
thoughts that rushed through her own brain as she
listened to this towering goddess of song, this poor mad
queen of the nightingales, humbly gloating over 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 answering
endless letters and telegrams from all parts of Europe —
for the good Taffy had constituted himself 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 by, there were kind inquiries and messages of
condolence and sympathy from nearly all the crowned
heads of Europe, through their chamberlains ; applications
for help from unsuccessful musical strugglers 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 to remain unanswered) — Taffy took an almost
malicious pleasure in explaining all this to Mrs. Bagot.

Then there was 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 Westminster
wishes to know — the Marchioness of Westminster wishes

393 TR1LB V

to know — everybody wishes to know if there is any
better news 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 impressed
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 — because what ?

Poor Mrs. Bagot felt herself turn hot and red all
over, and humbled herself to the very dust, and almost
forgot that she had been in the right, after all, and
that ' la grande Trilby ' 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 apologised for — for what ?

A poor, pathetic, mad creature who had clean forgotten
that she was the greatest singer in all the world — one of
the greatest artists that had ever lived ; but who remem-
bered with shame and contrition that she had once taken
the liberty of yielding (after endless pressure and repeated
disinterested refusals of her own, and out of sheer irresistible
affection) to the passionate pleadings of a little obscure
art student, a mere boy — no better off than herself — just

TRILB Y 399

as penniless and insignificant a nobody ; but — the son of
.Airs. Bagot !

All due sense of proportion died out of the poor lady
as she remembered and realised 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 appanage, and
which her malady and singular madness had only
increased ; her childlike simplicity, her transparent for-
getfulness 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 corruption 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 unconscious
natural manners ! not to speak of world-wide fame !

For Mrs. Bagot was just a shrewd little conventional
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 unprincipled and most dangerous
daughter of Heth, and the special enemy of her house.

And here she was — like all the rest of us monads
and nomads and bohemians- — just sitting at Trilby's feet.
. . . ' A washerwoman ! a figure model ! and Heaven

4oo TRILB Y

knows what besides ! ' and she had never even heard her
i

It was truly comical to see and hear !

sing !

Mrs. Bagot did not go back to Devonshire. She
remained 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 coming end of all.

Trilby had a way of saying, and especially of looking,
' 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 memory — gaps —
which, if they could only have been filled up, would have
been full of such surpassing interest !

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 Tarn 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 mamma ! ' 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 comptoir —
that's a barmaid, you know— at the Montagnards Ecossais,

TRILB V

401

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 all his heart, although, of course,
she wasn't his equal.
They were married at
the Embassy, in the
Rue du Faubourg St-
Honore.

'Her parents weren't
married at all. Her
mother was the daugh-
ter of a boatman on
Loch Ness, near a place
called Drumnadrochit ;
but her father was the
Honourable Colonel
Desmond. He was
related to all sorts of
great people in England
and Ireland. He be-
haved very badly to my
grandmother and to

poor mamma — his own daughter ! deserted them both !
Not very honourable of him, zvas 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

2 D

" AH, POOR MAMMA ! SHE WAS EVER SO
MUCH PRETTIER THAN THAT ! " '

4o2 TRILB Y

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, unfortunately, the Svengalis
had just left for St. Petersburg, and she had her long
journey for nothing !

Mrs. Bagot brought her many good books, and read
them to her — Dr. Cumming's 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 Pilgrim's
Progress, sweet little tracts, and what not.

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, ma'i'e, ale ! '

Then Mrs. Bagot, as a reward for such winning docility,
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 almost as sweet to listen to
as if she were vocalising the quick part in Chopin's
Impromptu.

TRILBY 403

One day she said, her lips trembling : ' I can't make
out why you're so wonderfully kind to me, Mrs. Bagot.
I hope you have not forgotten who and what I am, and
what my story is. I hope you haven't forgotten that I'm
not a respectable woman ? '

' Oh, my dear child — don't ask me. ... I only know
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 misjudged
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 you'd committed a murder, I really believe
— you're so strange ! you're irresistible ! Did you ever,
in all your life, meet anybody that wasn't fond of you ? '

Trilby's eyes moistened with tender pleasure at such a
pretty compliment. Then, after a few minutes' thought,
she said, with engaging candour 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 ? '

< 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

4o4 TRILB V

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 Almighty
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: ' Apres 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 ! '

' What are you saying to yourself in French, Trilby ?
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 people do
it. I've nursed them, you know — papa and mamma and
Jeannot, and Angele 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 Vaugirard, 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 !
/';;/ 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 executioner ! 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 prepared
to meet your Maker face to face ? Have you ever
thought about God, and the possible wrath to come if you
should die unrepentant ? '

TRILBY 405

' 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 amnistie generate ! 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
must have something perfect to look up to and be fond
of — even if it's only an idea ! even if it's too good to
be true !

' Though some people don't even believe He exists !
Le pere Martin didn't — but, of course, he was only a
cJiiffonnier, and doesn't count.

' One day, though, Durien, the sculptor, who's very
clever, and a very good fellow indeed, said :

' " Vois-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 think-
ing how nice it would be if I could only please Him
with it ! "

1 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 sitting, a
lot of us, in the court-yard outside la mere Martin's shop,
drinking coffee with an old Invalide called Bastide Len-
dormi, 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-piete 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 —

406

TRILB V

' " Parlez-nous de lui, grandmere !
Grandmere, parlez-nous de lui ! "

I suppose she sang it very well, for it made old Bastide
Lendormi cry ; and when Pere Martin blagufd him about
it, he said —

' " C'est egal, voyez-vous ! to sing like that is to pray ! "

' "TO SING LIKE THAT IS TO PRAY/"

1 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 ! '

1 What ! Trilby? if you could only sing like Oh,

TRILBY 407

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 !
Thinking 's praying, very often — don't you think so ? And
so's being sorry and ashamed when one's done a mean
thing,and glad when one's resisted a temptation, and grateful
when it's a fine day and 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 with-
out words just as well as songs, I 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 always
seemed to get the things lie 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 ? '

1 Oh, well — I don't exactly know ! Look here, Mrs.
Bagot, I'll tell you the lowest and meanest thing I ever
did. . . .'

(Mrs. Bagot felt a little nervous.)

' I'd promised to take Jeannot on Palm-Sunday to St.
Philippe du Roule, to hear l'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

4o8 TRILB Y

Mathicu, who was a student in law ; and a certain
Victorine Letellier, who — who was Mathieu's mistress,
in fact — a lace-mender in the Rue Ste. Maritorne la
Pocharde. And so I went on Sunday morning to tell
Jeannot that I couldn't take him.

'He cried so dreadfully that I thought I'd give up the
others and take him to St. Philippe, as I'd promised.
But then Durien and Mathieu and Victorine 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 was
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 anybody's
way. But I was afraid the)' 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 couldn't 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 I hadn't.

' It was six or seven years ago, and I really believe
I've thought of it 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 that's 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 Ouartier Latin, you
know — sitting to painters and sculptors. . . . Surely, so
attractive as you are. . . .'

'Oh yes. ... I know what you mean — it was horrid,

TR1LB Y

409

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 M'Allister ! But then it wasn't deceiving

'THE REMEMBRANCE OF THAT PALM-SUNDAY ! '

or disappointing anybody, or hurting their feelings — it
was only hurting myself!

' Besides, all that sort of thing, in women, is punished
severely enough down here, God knows ! unless one's a
Russian empress like Catherine the Great, or a grande

4io TRILBY

dame like lots of them, or a great genius like Madame
Rachel or Georges Sand !

' Why, if it hadn't been for that, and sitting for the
figure, I should have felt myself good enough to marry
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
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 life
as that ! Lots of their wives are blancJiisseuses 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 Incarnation
and the Resurrection. . . .'

' Oh yes — I used to, at least. I used to have to learn
the Catechism on Sundays — mamma made me. What-
ever her faults and mistakes were, poor mamma was
always very particular about that I 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, doesn't it ?

' He told me to be good, and not to mind what priests
and clergymen tell us. He'd been a clergyman himself,
and knew all about it, he said.

' I haven't been very good — there's not much doubt

TRILBY 411

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 your 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 everybody 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, isn't 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 bete !

412 TRILBY

1 So that if you don't want mc 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
very 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 opinion
on this solemn subject, was found to be at one with the
late Reverend 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 Jakes
(then Mr.) Talboys and Doctor Thorne and Antony 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 remained
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 herself!

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 propped, her knees drawn up — looking very placid
and content.

She had spent the early part of the day dictating her
will to the conscientious Taffy.

It was a simple document, although she was not with-
out many valuable trinkets to leave : quite a fortune !
Souvenirs from many men and women she had charmed
by her singing, from royalties downward.

TRILBY 413

She had been looking them over with the faithful
Marta, to whom she had always thought they belonged.
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, except a few that
Svengali had given her himself, with 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 trots AnglicJies she had bequeathed
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 costly)
gifts to each of the three doctors who had attended her
and been so assiduous in their care ; and who, as she was
told, would make no charge for attending on Madame
Svengali. And studs and scarf-pins to Antony, Lorrimer,
the Greek, Dodor, and Zouzou ; and to Carnegie a little
German-silver vinaigrette which had once belonged 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 sympathetic con-
scientiousness with which the good Taffy entered upon all
these minutiae — he was so solemn and serious about it,

A
©

TRILBY 415

and took such pains. She little guessed how his dumb
but deeply feeling heart was harrowed !

This document had been duly signed and witnessed
and entrusted 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 listened 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 was 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 Svengali,
in the military uniform of his own Hungarian band
(which he had always worn until he came to Paris and
London, where he conducted in ordinary evening dress),
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 photo-
grapher, and a most speaking likeness ; and Svengali

4 1 6

TRILB V

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
Trilby, who exclaimed in surprise. She had never seen

it. She had no photograph
of him, and had never pos-
sessed one.

No message of any kind,
no letter of explanation, ac-
^ companied this unexpected
present, which, from the post-
marks on the case, seemed to
have travelled all over Europe

to London, out of some remote
province in eastern Russia —
out of the mysterious East !

The poisonous East — birth-
place and home of an ill

wy7 I wind that blows nobody good
/ Trilby laid it against her
$f legs as on a lectern, and lay
gazing at it with close atten-
tion for a long time, making
a casual remark now and
then, as, ' He was very hand-
some, I think ' ; or, ' That
uniform becomes him very well. Why has he got it on,
I wonder ? '

The others went on talking, and Mrs. Bagot made
coffee.

Presently Mrs. Bagot took a cup of coffee to Trilby,

'OUT OF THE MYSTERIOUS EAST'

TRILBY 417

and found her still staring intently at the portrait, but
with her eyes dilated, and quite a strange light in them.

' 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 softly, in
French : ' Encore une fois ? bon ! je veux bien ! avec la
voix blanche alors, n'est-ce pas? et puis foncer au milieu.
Et pas trop vite en commencant ! Battez bien la mesure,
Svengali — que je puisse bien voir — car il fait deja nuit !
c'est qa. ! Allons, Gecko — donne-moi le ton ! '

Then she smiled, and seemed to beat time softly by
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 pour-
ing out, without words — mere vocalising. 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 holy,
heavenly sweetness.

She was a consummate mistress of her art. How that
could be seen ! And also how splendid had been her train-
ing. It all seemed as easy to her as opening and shutting
her eyes, and yet how utterly impossible to anybody else !

2 E

418 TRILBY

Between wonder, enchantment, and alarm they were
frozen to statues — all except Marta, who ran out of the
room crying, ' Gott im Himmcl ! wieder zuriick ! wicder
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 essence
of her voice in fact — the pure spirit, the very 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 astounding
feat of musical utterance ever heard out of a human
throat.

The usual effect was produced. Tears were streaming
down the cheeks of Mrs. Bagot and Little Billee. Tears
were in the Laird's eyes, a tear on one of Taffy'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 part-
ing caress (which Svengali had introduced as a finale, for
it does not exist in the piano score).

When it was over, she said : ' Ca y est-il, cette fois,
Svengali ? Ah ! tant mieux, a la fin ! e'est pas mal-
heureux ! Et maintenant, mon ami,je suis fatiguce — bon
soir ! '

Her head fell back on the pillow, and she lay fast
asleep.

42o TRILB Y

Mrs. Bagot took the portrait away gently. Little
Billce 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 inaudible.

But soon she folded her hands across her breast, and
uttered a little short sigh, and in a weak voice said :
' Svengali . . . Svengali . . . Svengali . . .'

They remained in silence round her for several
minutes, 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 Svengali's
trials and sufferings are all over ! '

' Oh, good God ! is she dead?' cried Mrs. Bagot.

' Yes, Mrs. Bagot. She has been dead several minutes
— perhaps a quarter of an hour.'

VINGT ANS APRES

Porthos-Athos, alias Taffy Wynne, is sitting to break-
fast (opposite his wife) at a little table in the courtyard of
that huge caravanserai on the Boulevard des Capucines,
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 same
cosmopolite company, with more of the American element,
perhaps ; the same arrivals and departures in railway
omnibuses, cabs, hired carriages ; and, airing his calves on

TRILBY 421

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 courtyard of the Grand Hotel. As the
Laird would 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 patience. 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 movement 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 he 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
of gentleman,' and its virtues as a noun of definition,
would almost be justified in quite dogmatically asserting
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 getting

422 TRILB Y

rather bald) to the sole of his foot (by no means a small
one, or a lightly shod — ex pede Herculem) !

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 dull — and so was Athos, I think ;
and likewise his son, the faithful Viscount of Bragelonne
— ban chien cJiasse de race ! And so was Wilfred of
Ivanhoe, the disinherited ; and Edgar, the Lord of
Ravenswood ! and so, for that matter, was Colonel New-
come, 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 intuitions ; deeply inter-
ested 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. Anatole
des Arts, where he and she and her mother had tended
the sick couch of Little Billee — but she had never told
her love. Tout vient a point, a 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

'TOUT VIENT A POINT, A QUI SAIT ATTENDEE '

asleep in bed, at his rooms in Jermyn Street, for he was
very tired ; grief tires more than anything, and brings c
deeper slumber.

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 gathering,
as was duly chronicled in all the newspapers here and

424 TRILBY

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 tumbling
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 every-
body 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 before
had begun over again !

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 paralysis of
his powers as a painter, his quick decline, his early death,
his manly, calm, and most beautiful surrender — the
wedding of the moth with the star, of the night with the
morrow !

For all but blameless as his short life had been, and so

TRILB V

425

full of splendid promise 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 ! ' in
another life. It shook the infallibility 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

SSB&lMu

$ -

m
■

f T

m ■ ■

I, PETE COELESTES.

426 TRILB Y

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 compensation for all
the griefs and troubles of her life.

During the first year or two Blanche had perhaps been
the more 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 unworthiness.

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 ! and then that look
fell on another boy, and yet another, so that it was through
these boys that she looked at their father. Then his eyes
caught the look, and kept it for their own use ; and he
grew never to look at his wife without 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 sportsman
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

TRILBY 427

taste : indeed, he has no illusions on that score himself,
even if his wife has ! He is quite the least conceited art-
duffer 1 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 fourteen 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 Shakes-
pearian holocaust would scarcely cost me a pang !

It is a great temptation, when you 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 two of their sons are at Harrow (where their father
was before them), and the third is safe at a preparatory
school at Elstree, Herts.

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 honeymoon of his
own. He has gone to Scotland to be married himself —
to wed a fair and clever countrywoman 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

428 TRILB Y

well-seasoned affection, 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
courtyard of the Grand Hotel ! and she will laugh at every-
thing he says — and they will live happily ever after.

So much for hero number three — D'Artagnan ? Here's
to you, Sandy M'Allister, 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
revisited the well-remembered spots ; and even been
allowed to enter the old studio, through the kindness of
the concierge (who is no longer Madame Vinard). 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 respect-
able. Trilby's foot, and the poem, and the sheet of plate-
glass have been improved away, and a bookshelf 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 prosperous, and live somewhere in
the south of France, and that Monsieur Vinard is mayor
of his commune. Que le bon Dicn les bc'nisse ! cetaient de
bien braves gens.

TR1LB Y 429

Then Mr. and Mrs. Taffy have also been driven (in an
open calccJie 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 ca ! and to St.
Germain, and to Meudon (where they lunched at lalogedu
garde champctre — 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, includ-
ing Notre Dame and the Sainte Chapelle ; and dined with
the Dodors at their charming villa near Asnieres, and with
the Zouzous at the splendid Hotel de la Rochemartel, and
with the Duriens 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
right — and so are the young Duriens. As for the young
Zouzous, there aren't any — and that's a weight off one's
mind !

And they've been to the Varietes and seen Madame
Chaumont, and to the Frangais 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, and buy things, and
lunch anywhere, sur le pouce, and do the Bois once more
and see tout Paris, and dine early at Durand's, or Bignon's
(or else the Cafe des Ambassadeurs), and finish up the
well-spent day at the 'Mouches d'Espagne ' — the new
theatre in the Boulevard Poissonniere — to see Madame
Cantharidi in ' Petits Bonheurs de Contrebande,' which
they are told is immensely droll and quite proper — funny

43°

TRILBY

without 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 !

■• a m

titigj*

' PETITS BONHEURS DE CONTREBANDE '

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 that modern
esprit gaulois which would make the good Rabelais turn
uneasily in his grave and blush there like a Benedictine
Sister.

TRILBY 43'

And truly she deserves the reverential love and grati-
tude of her ckers Parisiens ! She amused them all through
the Empire ; during the annce 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 Revajiche, may Madame
Cantharidi be still at her post, ' Les mouches 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 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 Anglaise qui n'est pas begueule,
au moins ! Et 1' gros bceuf avec les yeux bleus en boules
de loto — c'est son mari, sans doute ! il n'a pas l'air trop
content par exemple, celui-la ! '

The fact is that the good Taffy (who knows French
very well indeed) is quite scandalised, 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 without

432 TRILBY

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 obbligato
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 that his profile
can be seen, and Taffy recognises him.

After five minutes' thought, Taffy takes a leaf out of
his pocket-book and writes (in perfectly grammatical
French) : —

' DEAR 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 premier
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 uncom-
fortable without quite realising as yet what was amiss with
the lively Madame Cantharidi.

TRILBY 433

They 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. Taffy was
particular about these things on a holiday, and regardless
of expense. Porthos was very hospitable, 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, near the
Grand Opera, where it is always very gay, and studied
Paris life, and nursed their appetites till supper-time.

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 inclined
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, clinging, 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 always had been.

At first he could scarcely eat for nervous excitement ;
but Taffy's fine example and Mrs. Taffy's genial, 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.

2 F

ENTER GECKO

TRILBY 435

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 me so, looking like
that ! Shall I mix you a maitrank ? " And " Gecko,
you love artichokes a la Barigoule ; they remind you of
Paris — I have heard you say so. Well, I have found out
where to get artichokes, 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
splendour sometimes ! '

' And what an artist ! ' said Taffy.

' Ah, yes ! but all that was Svengali, you know.
Svengali was the greatest artist I ever met ! Monsieur,
Svengali was a demon, a magician ! I used to think him
a god ! He found me playing in the streets for copper
coins, and took me by the hand, and was my 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! That English jail ! it demoralised me, ruined
me for ever ! ach ! quel enfer, nom de Dieu (pardon,
madame) ! I am just good enough to play the obbligato

436 TRILB V

at the Mouches d'Espagne, when the old Cantharidi
sings,

' " Via mon mari qui r'garde !

Trends garde — ne m'chatouille plus ! "

' It does not want much of an obbligato, hcin, a song
so noble and so beautiful as that !

' 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 dcs Bashi-
bazoucks. You heard her ? Well ! '

And here poor Gecko tried to laugh a little sardonic
laugh in falsetto, like Svengali's, full of scorn and bitter-
ness— and very nearly succeeded.

'But what made you strike him with — with that
knife, you know?'

' Ah, monsieur, it had been coming on for a long time.
He used to work Trilby too hard ; it was killing 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
I 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 ca, passionately ! But
she did not love him as he wished to be loved. She
loved Litrebili, monsieur ! Litrebili, the brother of

TRILB V 437

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 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.

1 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
Litolff tell Meyerbeer that the most beautiful female voice
in Europe belonged to an English grisette 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 !
AVe 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, diamonds, 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 ^phenomene
monsieur ! She could keep on one note and make it go
through all the colours in the rainbow — according to the

438

TRILB Y

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 as

' "WE TOOK HER VOICE NOTE BY NOTE '

many overtones as the bells in the Carillon de Notre
Dame. She could run up and down the scales, chromatic
scales, quicker and better and smoother than Svengali on
the piano, and more in tune than any piano ! and her
shake — acJi ! twin stars, monsieur ! She was the greatest

TRILBY 439

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 ! those 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
Paganini from one note to another, like a swallow flying !
... 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 iicel di Dio ! it was to
make you weep for love, merely to see her (detait a vons
faire pleurer d'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 voila ! '

' 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

44o TRILB V

looked from one to the other. Then he pulled himself
together with an effort, so to speak, and said, ' Monsieur,
she never went mad — not for one moment ! '

' What ? Do you mean to say she deceived us all ? '

' Non, monsieur ! She could never deceive anybody,
and never would. She had forgotten — voila tout I '

' 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 little malady that
will kill me soon, Gott set dank — and without much pain.

' I will tell you a secret.

' There were two Trilbys. 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 she 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, hein? a se boucher les oreilles I
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 vie !

' 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 every-
thing ! ce pauvre Litrebili, cc qiiil a perdu !

TRILBY 441

' But all at once — pr-r-r-out ! presto ! augenblick ! . . .
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 I " and she suddenly became
an unconscious Trilby of marble, who could produce
wonderful sounds — just the sounds he wanted, and nothing
else — and think his thoughts and wish his wishes — and
love him at his bidding with a strange, unreal, factitious
love . . . just his own love for himself turned inside out
— a lenvers — and reflected back on him, as from a mirror
. . . ?i n echo, un simulacre, quoi I pas autre cJiose ! ... 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 nothing
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 " Nussbaum," 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 vioque pas mal, ce
famcux viol on ! . . .

1 And our Trilby . . . what did she know of Schumann,
Chopin ? — nothing at all ! She mocked herself not badly

44:

TRILB Y

of Nussbaums and Impromptus . . . they would make
her yawn to demantibulate her jaws! . . . When Sven gal i's
Trilby was being taught to sing . . . when Svengali's
Trilby was singing — or seemed to you as if she were sing-

THE NIGHTINGALE S FIRST SONG

ing — 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
have heard her sing to kings and queens in royal palaces !

TRILB V 443

... 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 night, 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 Kermessen . . . and seen
the people go mad to hear her . . . and once, at Prague,
Svengali fell down in a fit from sheer excitement ! 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 I what an existence ! what travels ! what
triumphs ! 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 I . . . 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 ! . . . Gott
sei dank ! Ich habe geliebt und gelebet ! geliebt und
gelebet ! geliebt und gelebet ! Cristo di Dio . . . Sweet

444 TRILBY

sister in heaven . . . O 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 chambertin !
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 got up and leaned on the
window-bar and looked out on the deserted boulevards,
where an army of scavengers, noiseless and taciturn, was
cleansing the 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, ' Via,
m'sieur ! ' and drew up.

Taffy rang the bell, and asked for the bill, and paid it,
Gecko had apparently fallen asleep. Taffy gently 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 downstairs, 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 that was
kept, one may be sure.

Gecko uncovered his fuzzy white head, and took Mrs.

TRILB Y

445

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 —

c Ah ! bon — connais bien, celui la ; vous savez — c'est
lui qui joue du violon aux Mouches d'Espagne ! 11 a
soupe, l'bourgeois ; n'est-ce pas, m'sieur ? " petits bonheurs

de contrebande," hein ?
soin de lui ! il joue joli-
ment bien, m'sieur ;
n'est-ce pas ? '

Taffy shook Gecko's
hand and asked,

' Ou restez - vous,
Gecko ? '

ayez pas peur ! on vous aura

" ICH HABE GELIEBT UND CELEBET/'

446 TRILB Y

* Quarante-huit Rue des Pousse-cailloux, au cinquieme.'

' How strange ! ' said Taffy to his wife — ' how touching !
why, that's where Trilby used to live — the very number !
the very floor ! '

1 Oui, oui,' said Gecko, waking up ; ' c'est l'ancienne
mansarde a Trilby — j'y suis depuis douze ans — -fy suis,
fy reste. . . .'

And he laughed feebly at his mild little joke.

Taffy told the address to the cabman, and gave him
five francs.

' Merci, m'sieur ! C'est de l'aut' cote" de l'eau — pres de
la Sorbonne, 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 : —

' Via nion mari qui r'garde —
Prends garde !
Ne nrchatouill' 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,
floppety-clop,' otherwise they were 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 home — where three
jolly boys would soon be coming for the holidays.

And there we will leave them to their useful,
humdrum, happy domestic existence — than which there

TRILB Y

447

is no better that I know of, at their time of life— and no
better time of life than theirs !

' Oh peut-on $tre mieux quan sein de sa famille ?'

That blessed harbour 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 little play

To keep us going — and so, good-day !

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 !

A little trust that when we die

We reap our sowing ! And so — good-bye !

Printed by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.

MISCELLANEOUS WORKS.

MEMOIRS OF BARRAS, Member of the Directorate. Edited with a
General Introduction, Prefaces, and Appendices, by George Duruy.
Translated by C. E. Roche. With seven Portraits in Heliogravure, two
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Extract from the Preface : —

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THOMAS HARDY'S NOVELS.

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RETURN OF THE NATIVE.

THE WOODLANDERS.

JUDE THE OBSCURE.

THE TRUMPET MAJOR.

THE HAND OF ETHELBERTA.

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.

DESPERATE REMEDIES.

A LAODICEAN.

A GROUP OF NOBLE DAMES.

LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES.

WESSEX TALES.

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London : OSGOOD, McILVAINE & CO.. 45 Albemarle Street, W.

PR 4634 .T7 1895

SMC

Du Maurier, George,

1834-1896.
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