PART THREE

PARIS

I

At nine o’clock next evening a slightly confused Wynne Rendall was seeking a cab midst the din and clatter of the Gare St. Lazare. He had escaped the escort of several insidious gentlemen who offered their services as “Guides,” and spoke suggestively of Corybantine revels they were prepared to exhibit. Wynne had been warned by an amiable Customs official to have nothing to do with “zes blerdy scoundrills,” so he was able to reply to their English solicitations, “Pas ce soir, merci,” and move on in the press of crowds.

He succeeded in attracting the attention of a very aged cab-driver, who controlled two white steeds, of even greater age, with a pair of scarlet reins. Him he addressed in his best school French:

“Je desire trouver un hotel très petit et pas trop cher,” he said.

The driver seemed at some difficulty to understand, but when finally he succeeded in doing so he bade Wynne climb inside, and, gathering up his reins, shouted a frenzied command to the horses. Seemingly these beasts were unaffected by his cries, for they moved away in the stateliest fashion; whereupon the driver rose to his feet and laid about him with a whip like any Roman charioteer. This produced the desired result, and the vehicle, swaying perilously, thundered over the cobbles of the station yard and out into the night.

“This is magnificent,” said Wynne. “Oh, gorgeous!”

His eyes feasted on the broad boulevards—the _cafés_, with their little tables set upon the pavement beneath the gay striped awning—the unfamiliar cosmopolitan crowds who jostled along or sat sipping their syros and bocks at pleasant ease. Also it was very wonderful to be driving on the wrong side of the road and apparently ignoring all traffic laws. Once a gendarme with a long, clattering sword held up his hand to bid them stop, but him the driver ignored, beyond a sharp rattle of criticism as they brushed by.

At the corner of the Rue St. Honoré a _fiacre_ in front knocked a man off his bicycle, and proceeded as though nothing had happened. The unfortunate cyclist picked himself up and started in pursuit, leaving his bicycle lying in the highway. A motor bus, considering such an obstacle unworthy of changing its course to avoid, ran over it, crushing the frame and rims, and Wynne’s cab, following behind, did likewise.

Nobody seemed to care. Passers-by scarcely wasted a glance over the affair. A desire to cheer possessed Wynne. It seemed he had arrived at the City of Harlequinade, where the wildest follies were counted to be wise.

Further down the road a fight was in progress. No blows were exchanged, but the disputants grabbed and clawed at each other’s clothing. They ripped out neckties and tore the buttons from waistcoats. They stamped upon and kicked each other’s hats—pockets were wrenched from coats, and shirt-tails sprang unexpectedly to view.

Wynne could not help thinking how funny it would be if Wallace were to appear in Wimbledon High Street with a battered silk hat and his shirt-tail flapping over his breeches. There was humour in this fight which seemed to justify it—not blood and staggering figures, such as one saw outside the publichouses at home on a Saturday night.

Wynne blessed the old gentleman of the National Gallery who had inspired him to come to Paris.

They passed a great _magasin_ with blazed arch lights, and turned up a tiny street to the left. Wynne caught a glimpse of its name as the cab turned the corner. “Rue Croix des Petits Champs.” Then the vehicle stopped abruptly—so abruptly that the nearside horse fell to his knees and nearly dragged the driver from the box, who marked his disapproval by liberal use of the whip. Order being restored, he pointed to a big arched doorway and cried:

“Voilà! Voilà!”

So Wynne alighted and demanded:

“Comme bien?”

“Cinq francs quatre-vingt-cinq.”

Wynne was unaccustomed to French money, and the centimes conveyed nothing to him. He proffered four francs and was amazed at the flow of incomprehensible invective which followed. It was impossible to argue at anything approaching that speed, so he held up his palm with some silver in it and said:

“Alors prenez ce que vous voulez.”

The driver accordingly appropriated eight francs, and with a cry of “’Voir et merci,” whipped up his horses and vanished into the night.

Wynne subsequently learned that the fare should have been about one shilling and threepence.

He entered the arched gates and found himself in a small courtyard with a lighted door at the further end. Above this was written, “Hotel du Monde et Madagascar.”

The idea of referring to Madagascar as though it were a satellite of the world pleased his sense of humour and warmed his heart toward the new abode.

The foyer at the hotel was quite small, and there was a little office, on the immediate right of the entrance, in which sat a sweet-looking old lady dressed in black, and wearing a beautifully laundered cap.

Wynne gave her good evening, stated that he wanted a room, “très bon marché,” and told her his name.

“Et moi je suis Rosalie,” returned the little concierge, with the sweetest smile imaginable.

Certainly he could have a room—it was on the fifth floor, and cost but twenty francs a month. That he would like it she was sure, since it was “clair, propre et tout ce qu’il faut.” She would ring for Benoit, who was “un garçon bien gentil,” although suffering from “mal é la poitrine,” which would carry him off all too soon. “Qui, c’est triste!”

Benoit’s appearance, when eventually he arrived, did not give rise to any immediate anxiety regarding his health. He was a big and cheerful man, beside whom Wynne felt painfully insignificant. Taking possession of the bag, Benoit led the way up many flights of stairs, until at last they arrived at the fifth floor. Here he threw open a door and said:

“Voilà! N’est-ce pas?”

Wynne’s reply, “C’est de luxe,” amused Benoit greatly, who sat on the bed to enjoy a hearty laugh.

While the bag was being unpacked, Benoit supplied information regarding Parisian life. Thus Wynne learnt that the average boarder in small French hotels went out for his meals and his bath. By this means either one or the other could be taken at the convenience of the individual, who was therefore in no way constrained to be at a certain place at any specified hour. Wynne inquired how far it was to the Quartier Latin, and was greatly delighted to learn that ten minutes’ walk would land him there.

Many students from the ateliers lodged at the hotel, he discovered, some of whom were “bien gentil,” and others “méchant.”

“Aprés le Bal Quatres Arts! O c’était terrible!” He, Benoit, was constrained to prevent a certain young Englishman, who habitually was “tout à fait milord,” from importing to his apartment a lady dressed as Britannia, whom he claimed as his bride. It was undoubtedly very droll, and he was sympathetic, but the good name of the house came first, and since no marriage lines were available, husband and wife were forced to celebrate their nuptials apart. Doubtless the young man was carried away by patriotism, but if the excellent “Madame” had heard of such goings on she would have been in a fine rage.

Further advices were given as to where Wynne would do well to seek his food. He would find excellent hospitality “chez Bouillon Aristide” at the corner, and a little further down the Rue St. Honoré was a creamery whose chocolate and croissons would compare with those set upon the table of the President.

He urged Wynne to avoid sliding on the polished floor of his bedroom, since the practice provided him with additional labour in the mornings. Also he volunteered the remark that the room was popular because it was very amusing.

Wynne liked the room, but could not at the time comprehend in what sense the word amusing could be associated with it. When he awoke the following morning an explanation arose, for his ears were filled with the sound of girls’ voices singing a merry song.

Opening his eyes he observed through the window an apartment some twenty feet away on the other side of the courtyard. Herein sat perhaps a dozen little workgirls, plaiting and combing long switches of false hair. They were employés of a perruquier, and cheerful, light-hearted souls they appeared to be. When he sat up in bed they greeted him with the friendliest gaiety, giving thanks that their fears that he might be dead were not realized.

Wynne felt a little embarrassed having to make his toilet in these circumstances. He remained between the sheets indecisively until forced to rise by the friendly chaffery from opposite. Then he grabbed his clothes from the chair and ran the gauntlet to the corner of the room, where he might dress without being observed.

This manœuvre excited gusts of merriment, in which he found himself joining very heartily.

After all, why should one mind dressing before an audience? It was ridiculous to be super-modest over such trifles. He realized with a start that his own stock of unconventionalism was thoroughly outclassed by these simple little midinettes, and this being so, he at once conceived for them a very profound esteem.

Accordingly, with a hairbrush in one hand and his braces trailing behind him, he stepped upon the tiny balcony and said:

“Bon jour. Je pense que vous êtes très, très douce les toutes.”

The cordial reception accorded to this sentiment encouraged him to further efforts. He found, however, that his stock of French was insufficient for the needs of the occasion. After a laborious endeavour to express appreciation for their sunny broad-minded temperaments and to include a few words stating that his mission in life was to inculcate a similar breadth of mind to the hide-bound pedants who infested the world, he was compelled to stop for lack of the material to proceed.

His merry audience, in spite of having failed to understand a single word, cheered the speech very generously, and blew him a cloud of aerial kisses.

II

Wynne Rendall took his chocolate and immersed his roll therein with all the skill of a Parisian, and later, in a very rapturous frame of mind, crossed the Seine by the Pont des Arts and made his way to the Rue du Dragon. He had no difficulty in discovering the Atelier Julien, and addressing himself to a bearded and aproned old gentleman who sat on a high stool in a very small office.

He had feared there might be difficulty in gaining admission, since he could claim no previous experience of the plastic arts, but in this his misgivings proved groundless. It was merely a matter of paying one’s fee—a small fee at that—and taking one’s place.

Asked if he had any choice of masters, he shook his head. He was placed therefore under the guardianship of Le Maître Jean Paul Laurens, a man “both strong and brilliant,” whose studio was on the first floor.

Since he desired to spend the day seeing Paris, and purchasing colours and canvas, Wynne decided he would not start work until the morrow.

“Bien; demain matin à huit heures! Très bien. Au ’voir.”

III

It was splendid to reflect that he was a full-blown student of the Quartier, thought Wynne, as with ringing steps he swung along the narrow thoroughfares. He wished Uncle Clem had been there to witness his glory. Never before had he felt so confident of his own personality. Rivulets of water danced and chattered along the gutters reflecting the gladness of his mood—the sun shone gloriously on the tall white houses. Quaint old men with baskets of merchandise piped beseechingly on tiny horns. Thousands of purple-dyed eggs filled the shop windows, and the wonderful, everchanging, raffish, homely crowds chattered, gesticulated and hurried along in ceaseless streams.

Wynne was possessed with a foolish desire to shake hands with every one he met, and tell them all about himself; to explain why he had come, and to give them a glimpse of the workings of his many-sided nature. A measure of common sense dissuaded him from so doing, but he sang as he walked, and expanded his narrow chest to its fullest capacity. Presently he found himself by the riverside, and hovered awhile over the book-sellers’ stalls perched on the stone copings of the embankment. At one of these he bought a translation of Shakespeare’s works, an old volume of Balzac, and some paper-bound copies of the plays of Molière. It was the first time he had rummaged among books, and the experience was delightful. The mere touch of them sent a thrill of learning through his being.

For awhile he hovered by the riverside watching the energetic steamboats—the sober barges—and the great floating warehouses moored by the tow-path. Everywhere were people sketching—placid and preoccupied. No crowds of curious urchins jostled around them with stupid comments, as was always the case at home when any one had the temerity to bring their colour-box into the open day.

Paris respected its artists, and gave them as great seclusion out of doors as in their own studios. Sombre sportsmen, rodded and camp-stooled, lined the banks and strove to catch the elusive gudgeon. It seemed as though their attention was centred anywhere but upon the float. Their eyes rested dreamily on the spanned arches of Pont Neuf or the flying buttresses of Notre Dame, while invisible fish in the green waters beneath worried the bait from the hook with perfect immunity from danger.

To the island of Notre Dame Wynne directed his steps, and spent an hour of sheer delight with imagination let loose. Romance breathed in the air around him, and memory of dead things sprang to life. He pictured himself back in Dumas’ days—with king’s men and cardinals—swashbuckling on the footway—with masked ladies flitting into dark doorways, and the tinkle of blade against blade from some courtyard near at hand.

Chance led him to enter a low, stone building by one of the bridges. All manner of men and women passed in and out of this place, and Wynne followed the general lead. There was a glass compartment across the far side of the hall, before which a large crowd was assembled. A nursemaid wheeling a perambulator, and a group of blue-smocked, pipe-smoking ouvriers hid from view what the case contained.

The exhibits, whatever they might be, were clearly very popular. Wynne reflected that probably they were Napoleonic relics, or maybe the crown jewels, when a rift in the crowd betrayed the fact that the case was full of dead men. With heads tilted at shy and foolish angles, with bodies lolling limply against the sloped marble slabs, the corpses of the Seine bleared stupidly at the quick.

It was the first time Wynne had looked on the face of the dead, and the sight chilled him with a faint, freezing sickness.

“Oh, God, how awful!” he muttered, and turned to go, but the way before him was barred by fresh arrivals. “I want to get out,” he cried, but no one heeded him. He began to struggle, when a firm hand fell on his shoulder, and a voice, speaking with a Southern American accent, said:

“Calm down, son. What’s the trouble?”

Wynne looked up and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man smiling upon him. He wore a blue serge shirt, a pair of sailor’s breeches, and no hat. His black, sleek hair hung loosely over his left temple.

“It’s horrible,” said Wynne. “I want to get away.”

“Yer wrong,” came the answer. “Yer wan’ to stop. The spirit of Paris abides in this place. There’s no intensive life without an intensive death. Only when they come here do they realize how very much alive they are. Sometimes I believe the Morgue is the greatest tonic in this city. Now jest pull up and we’ll step round the cases together.”

Wynne shook his head.

“Yer not afraid?”

“No, but—it seems so callous, and—I want to live—and do great things—wonders. I don’t want to stare at a row of corpses.”

“There’s a fellow there”—he nodded his head toward the case—“who was an artist. He wanted to live and perform wonders too. Then he found out that he couldn’t—found out that a dozen idle, do-nothing fellows could outclass him at every turn. What happens? He puts a brick in pocket and jumps. Seems to me, with your ideas, you might learn something from the page of those cold features.”

“All right,” said Wynne; “lead away.”

They joined the crowd that slowly filed past the silent watchers.

“I’m glad I saw them,” he said, as they turned once more toward the door. “I never realized before what full-stop meant. It makes one feel the need to get on—and on. Death is so horribly conclusive.”

He drew a breath of air gratefully as they came into the sunlight.

“A cure for slackers, eh?” said the American.

“Yes—rather.”

He was a pleasant fellow, the American, and volunteered to share a table at lunch.

“Painting student?” he asked.

“I’m making a start tomorrow at Julien’s.”

“Then pay for your drink when the Massier introduces himself, and if you know a rorty song sing it for all you’re worth.”

After lunch he helped Wynne buy colours, brushes, and a beautiful walnut palette, then wished him luck and departed.

They never met again. Paris is the place of quick friendships and equally quick partings. Races lose their characteristic shyness under the Paris sun. Strangers accost each other and join in day-long or night-long festivities, exchange their most intimate thoughts, and finally go their ways without even so much as asking each other’s names.

IV

Wynne arrived at the Atelier Jean Paul Laurens at a quarter to the hour of eight A. M. He was the first comer, and had a moment’s leisure to survey his surroundings. The studio itself was not large, and as high as the arm could reach the walls were plastered, generations deep, with palette scrapings. Above in great profusion were studies from the nude, heads and charcoal drawings in every possible mood of form and light. To Wynne, hitherto accustomed to regard paintings as pictures, these canvases struck a note of brutal coarseness, offending his æsthetic sensibilities. They seemed no more than men and women stripped of their clothing and indecently exposed.

“God! I won’t paint like that,” he thought.

From a great pile of easels in the corner he selected one and disposed it a few feet away from the model’s throne; which done, he set his palette with an infinite number of small dabs of colour. He thrust a few brushes through the thumb-hole, and was ready to make a start when the time arrived.

Presently a little Italian girl, with heavy gold rings in her ears, and a coloured kerchief over her head, came in and nodded a greeting.

“Nouveau?” she inquired.

“Oui,” replied Wynne.

She smiled agreeably, and seating herself on the throne kicked her shoes behind a screen and pulled off her stockings.

“O-ooo!” she shivered, “c’est pas chaud.”

She nodded toward the stove, and Wynne was glad of the opportunity to put on some coal, since he was conscious of some small uneasiness, alone and unoccupied while the maiden disrobed. He took as long as possible, and when he had finished discovered that she had finished too, and was calling upon him to provide her with a “couverture.” This he sought and handed to her, not entirely without embarrassment.

“Merci, Bébé,” said the Italian, and draped the old curtain around herself.

From the passage outside came the sound of many footsteps—a clamour of voices, and a moment later some twenty students clattered into the studio, with others at their heels. They were men of all ages and every nationality—some dressed as typical art students, others as conventionally attired as any young gentleman from Bond Street. An impulse which they shared in common was to make a noise, and in this they achieved a very high standard of perfection. A great variety of sounds were produced, mostly patterned from the fowl-run or the asses’ stall. One serious-minded and bearded boy devoted his ingenuity to reproducing the noise of a motor horn; while another, leaping to the model’s throne, hailed the dawn like any chanticleer. Espying Wynne’s beautifully white canvas perched upon its easel, a red-headed Alsatian flung a tabouret which swept all before it, and sent the new palette planing to the floor.

“What the devil do you mean by that?” cried Wynne, and was told to “Shut up, you silly ass. Don’t ask for trouble,” by an English voice at the back of the crowd.

At this moment a very precise little Frenchman stepped forward and made a bow.

“Moi je suis le Massier,” he announced, and asked if Wynne were prepared to stand a drink to the students. Twelve francs was the sum required—payable in advance.

The money was produced, whereat every one, including the model, who had borrowed a long painter’s coat for the occasion, rushed from the studio. Half the crowd became wedged in the doorway, and the other half fell down the stairs _en masse_. Wynne was swept along by the tidal wave at the rear, and trod on many prostrate pioneers before swinging out into the Rue du Dragon. There was a small café fifty yards distant, and thither they raced, sweeping every one from the pavements as they ran. Further jostling ensued at the doors of the café, but finally every one struggled through and found accommodation.

A chair was set upon a table and Wynne invited to occupy it. This he did with very great satisfaction and a kingly feeling. Busy waiters below hurried round with trays, bearing glasses of black coffee, and a very innocuous fluid known as “grog Americaine.”

When all had been served the Massier called upon the “nouveau” to give a song, and reminded him that failure to do so might result in unhappy consequences.

So Wynne stood upon the chair, with his head touching the ceiling, and sang several questionable limericks at the top of his voice. Hardly a soul understood the words, but from the spirit of their delivery they judged them to be indecent and bawdy, and as such very acceptable to hear. Moreover, there was a refrain in which all were able to join, and this in itself readily popularized the effort.

The Massier personally complimented the vocalist, and suggested that the occasion was almost sufficient to justify a barricade.

Cries were raised that nothing short of the barricade could be contemplated, and in an instant all the chairs and tables from the café were cast outside into the street. Skilled at their work, the barricaders set one table against the other with chairs before them. The company then seated itself and began to sing. Ladies from adjoining houses leaned out and threw smiles of encouragement, and the traffic in both directions ceased to flow.

Many and strange were the songs sung, and they dealt with life and adventure of a coarse but frisky kind.

Thus the passers-by learned what befell an officer who came across the Rhine, a sturdy fellow with an eye for a maid, and a compelling way with him to wit. Some there were who glowered disapprovingly at this morning madness, but more generally the audience were sympathetic, and yielded to the student the right of levity.

All would have gone well but for a surly dray-driver, who, wearying of the hold-up, urged his hairies into the midmost table with a view to breaking the barricade. This churlish act excited the liveliest activity. The horses were drawn from the shafts and led forthwith into a small greengrocer’s shop, where they feasted royally upon the carrots and swedes basketed in abundance about them. The owner of the shop and the driver raised their voices in protest, and their cries attracted the attention of the patron of the café. This good man, supported by three waiters, came forth and argued that the jest had gone far enough.

In so doing he was ill-advised, for in Paris a kill-joy invariably prejudices his own popularity. Some of the students formed a cordon about the good man and his staff, while others seized the chairs and tables and piled them on the tops of the waiting vehicles. This done they started the horses with cries and blows, and a moment later the furniture was careering up the street in all directions.

“C’est fini,” said the Massier.

The cordon broke, Monsieur le Patron and his garçons were away in pursuit, and the students, headed by the bare-footed Italian girl in her paint-smeared jacket, turned once more to their labours.

Wynne was almost exhausted with laughter. It seemed impossible such revels could be conducted by perfectly sober men before half-past eight in the morning. Perhaps strangest of all was the suddenness with which the robes of gaiety were discarded, for ten minutes later each man was at his easel setting out his palette as soberly as a city clerk plays dominoes during the luncheon hour.

V

It should be stated that Wynne Rendall showed small skill as a painter. He approached the task with a pleasant conviction that he would at least rival if not excel the ordinary run of students. At school he had been able to achieve clever little caricatures of masters and boys, and he had thought to draw from life would be a simpler matter altogether. To his chagrin he discovered that he was not able even to place the figure roughly upon a canvas. He realized the intention of the pose, but his efforts to convey it were futile and grotesque.

With jealous irritation he observed how the other students dashed in the rough constructive features of a figure with sure sense of proportion and animation.

“Wha’ are ye trying to do?” inquired a Scotch lad, who had abandoned his work for the pleasure of watching Wynne’s confusion. “Mon, it’s awfu’. Have ye no drawn from the antique?”

Wynne was not disposed to give himself away, although the words made him hot with shame.

“Every one has his own method,” he retorted.

“A’mitted, but there’s no meethod in yon. Stand awa’ a meenit.” And before Wynne had time to protest he struck a dozen red lines upon the canvas which gave an almost instantaneous likeness to the subject.

“Leave it alone,” said Wynne. “It isn’t yours.”

“I need hairdly say I’m glad. Now look ye here. Ye know naything, and a leetle ceevil attention will profit ye.”

He did not pay the slightest heed to Wynne’s sulky rejoinder, but, sucking at his pipe, continued to work on the canvas with great dexterity and skill. Presently he wearied of the occupation, and Wynne came back to his own with a somewhat chastened spirit.

It is an understood thing in the ateliers that every one criticizes every one else, and supports his theories by painting on the canvas he may be discussing. Before the day was out half a dozen different men left their mark on Wynne’s study. The most irritating feature about this practice was the coincidence that they always obliterated some little passage with which he was pleased. To quote one instance, he had succeeded rather happily in the treatment of an eye, imparting to it a sparkle and lustre that gave him profound satisfaction. He could have screamed with rage when the red-headed Alsatian, dipping his thumb in some raw umber, blotted it out, saying sweetly:

“It is not that it is an eye—it is a shadow that it should be.”

A similar experience occurred when, a week later, the great Jean Paul Laurens halted in amazement and disgust before his performance.

“This,” said he, “is a series of trivial incidents, of disjointed details! To we artists the human figure is a mass of light and shade. It is not made up of legs and hands, and breasts, and ears and teeth. No—by the good God, no!”

With which he seized a brush and scrabbled a quantity of flake white over the entire surface.

“Good!” he said. “It is finished.” And passed on to the next.

Thinking the matter over in bed that night Wynne realized he had learnt a great and valuable lesson: breadth of view—visualizing life as a whole. It was knowledge that could be applied to almost everything. Detail merely existed as part of the whole, but the whole was not arrived at by assembling detail.

The same would apply, he perceived, to every art, to business, too, and to life in general. He began to understand how it was possible for people like Wallace and his father to have their place in the scheme of things. They ceased to exist as individual items, brought into undue prominence by enforced propinquity, but became parts of a great machinery whose functions were too mighty to comprehend. These were the shadows which gave tone-value to the high-lights. They were vital and essential, and without them there would be no contrast, no variety, nothing but flat levels—dull and marshy—and never a hill on the horizon showing purple in the morning sun.

“I must learn this trade of painting,” said Wynne, “it’s the short road to all knowledge.”

He flung himself into the work with an energy truly remarkable. From early morning till midnight he battled with the craft, and thought and talked of nothing else. In the cafés, where students met and thrashed out their thousand ideas, Wynne was well bethought, for although his skill with a brush was small he could advance and support a theory with the liveliest talker in the Quartier. His success in argument was, perhaps, not altogether of advantage to his immortal soul, since it led him to cultivate a cynical attitude toward most affairs. He very readily became conversant with the works of the Masters, old and new, and praised or attacked them with great impartiality. Preferably he would detract from accepted geniuses, and deliver the most scathing criticisms against pictures before which mankind had prostrated itself for centuries. One day he would admit of the value of no artist save Manet, and another would accuse him of possessing neither skill nor artistry, but merely “a singularly adroit knack of expressing vulgarity.”

He did not attempt to be honest in regard to his points of view, being perfectly satisfied so long as he could hold a controversial opinion.

Not infrequently high words would result from these discussions, and on one occasion a table was overset, glasses smashed, and a chair flung. Police arrived on the scene, and Wynne and three companions spent the night in a lockup. This he did not mind in the least, and continued to air his views in the small hours of the morning until threatened with solitary confinement unless he desisted.

VI

On the tenth week after his arrival in Paris, Wynne’s money gave out. He had not bothered to consider what he should do when this happened, and as a result poverty seized him unprepared.

To do him justice he did not bother in the least as to the future of his bodily welfare, but was distressed beyond expression at the thought of abandoning his studies.

A wild idea possessed him to sell some of his future years for a few more terms at the studio. He even went to the length of discussing the project with the Massier. This gentleman, however, shook his head dubiously.

“Impossible,” he said.

“Why?” said Wynne. “I’ll give two-thirds of all I earn for the next three years to any one who’ll finance me now.”

“No doubt; but, monsieur, philanthropists are few in the Quartier—and your painting!” He made an expressive gesture. “Your paintings will never be sold. He who gave the money would see it again—never! I am sorry—it is sad—but what would you?”

Wynne turned away heavy at heart and angry, and next morning his place before the throne was vacant.

VII

Of all cities in the world Paris is the least hospitable to a bankrupt. It does not ask a man to be rich, and it does not mind if he be poor, for the great Parisian heart is warm to either state, but for the man who is destitute there is no place in its affections.

Your Quartier art student is an easy-going fellow in most directions, who will share his wine and his love with amiable impartiality, but he is proof against the borrower’s craft, and will do anything rather than lend money.

Of this circumstance Wynne was already aware, and in a sense was glad that it should be so. He was not of the kind who borrow, but had it been easy to negotiate a loan his awkward plight might have weighed against the maintenance of his ideals.

As he walked up the Rue Buonaparte, his colour-box swinging in his hand, he reflected that the moment had come to prove his fibre. Between himself and starvation was a sum amounting to one franc fifty centimes, barely enough to purchase a couple of modest meals.

“This time the day after tomorrow I shall be very hungry,” he said.

He was not alarmed at the prospect—and, indeed, he regarded it with a queer sense of excitement. By some twist of imagination he conceived that an adventurous credit was reflected upon himself by the very emptiness of his pockets. Tradition showed that most of the world’s great artists had passed through straitened circumstances, wherefore it was only right and proper he should do otherwise. Certainly there was no very manifest advantage in starving, but it would be pleasant to reflect that one _had_ starved. Almost he wished he could banish the still haunting flavour of the chocolate he had drunk at his _petit déjeuner_, and feel the pangs of hunger tormenting his vitals. He consoled himself with the thought that these would occur soon enough. In the meantime it would be well to consider what line of action he proposed to take. The impulse to do a sketch and carry it to market he dismissed at once. The schools had taught him that whatever virtues his artistry might possess, they were not of a saleable kind. It was therefore folly to waste his money in buying a good canvas which would undoubtedly be spoilt.

“No good,” he argued. “No good at all. I must do something that I can do.”

On the embankment he was accosted by the keeper of a bookstall which of late he had patronized freely.

“I have here a copy of the verses of Sully Prudhomme,” said the man, “and the price is but one franc. Such a chance will scarcely arrive again.”

It was sheer bravado, but Wynne bought the little volume without so much as an attempt to beat down the price. He felt no end of a fine fellow as he pocketed it and strolled away. Yet, curiously enough, he had not gone far before a panic seized him and he longed to rush back and beg for his money to be returned.

“That’s silly,” he told himself—“cowardly.” His hand stole to his pocket and took comfort from the feel of the fifty centime piece which remained.

“If I were really a man I’d spend that too.”

And spend it he did, but on a long loaf of stale bread which he brought back with him to the hotel.

He found Benoit at his interminable occupation of polishing the bedroom floor. This duty was performed by means of a flat brush strapped to the sole of the boot. The excellent fellow, while so employed, resembled a chicken scratching in straw for oats. Polishing had become a second nature to Benoit. He polished while he made beds, he polished while he emptied slops, he polished while he indulged in his not infrequent spells of religious rumination.

It was in this latter state of mind Wynne found him, and for want of a better confidant explained his unfortunate predicament.

“Benoit,” he said, “I am ruined—utterly ruined and penniless.”

“That,” replied the garçon, “is a pity, since I had had in mind that on the morrow you would be giving me five francs.”

It is the custom to give five francs to the garçon at the beginning of each month.

“Your chances of getting it, Benoit, are very remote.”

“It is to be hoped you will, then, be able to give me ten in the month which follows.”

“I pray that it may be so. In the meantime what am I to do that I may subsist?”

“That is a matter which rests with the good God.”

“Suing your pardon, I prefer to believe that it rests with me, Benoit.”

“It is inferior! I remark that you already possess bread.”

“It is the smaller part of my possessions.”

“And the larger, m’sieur?”

“Brains, Benoit—brains.”

“For myself I had rather have of the bread, believing it to be the more substantial blessing.”

“Which proves, Benoit, that you speak without consideration. A fool and his loaf are soon parted, but a wise man has that within his head which will stock a bakery.”

“May it prove so with you, m’sieur.”

“A thousand thanks. But, to return to our muttons, how am I to use my brains to best advantage?”

“By considering the lives of the saints, m’sieur.”

“A pious answer, Benoit, but I seek to use them to more profitable account. When I am relieved of the immediate anxiety of prematurely meeting these personages, I shall doubtless be better able to direct my thoughts toward them.”

“I can only repeat, m’sieur, that in divine consideration lies the province of the brain. If it be the body you desire to profit, then, beyond doubt, it is your hands must seek employment.”

“But I have no skill of the hands, Benoit.”

“There is no great skill required, m’sieur, to carry a basket at Les Arles.”[1]

“I urge you, Benoit, to avoid words of folly. Am I of the fibre to lift crates from a market cart? And if I were, do you suppose I could adjust my intellect to so clumsy a calling?”

“It is better, m’sieur, to engage upon a humble task than to wallow with the gudgeon of the Seine.”

“Pooh! Benoit, am I a likely suicide?”

“Given no meat, a man will drink betimes over-deeply of the water.”

The answer and memory of a certain grotesque figure in the Morgue gave Wynne to pause.

“You are a cold comforter,” he said. “Have you no happier suggestion to offer?”

“I speak from knowledge, m’sieur. If you are destitute you must be content with the smallest blessings.”

“But I have intellect, Benoit, in larger measure than most. Is there no market for intellect in this city of Paris?”

“There will be better intellects than yours that sleep without a roof in Paris tonight. Why should you, a stranger, look to France to buy your thoughts?”

“Because France alone, of all countries, holds out the hand of welcome to Art.”

“It may be so—and it may be in so doing she fills her own coffers. These are matters which I do not understand, but I know well, and well enough, that the stranger may learn an art in this city, but he cannot sell it here. M’sieur, when your bread is eaten I would advise that you go to Les Arles and offer your hands. There is always a value for hands, even though it be but very small, and maybe, by using them, you would in the end find profit for the brain.”

“Hum!” said Wynne despondently, “of all men you are the most cheerless.”

“But indeed no. If my mind was melancholy it was but to suit an occasion of some sadness. Let us, if you will, speak of lighter affairs.”

But since that line of conversation inevitably led to descriptions of _jeunes filles_ who at one time or another had confided their affections over-deeply to Benoit’s keeping, Wynne declined the invitation, and, picking up his cap, descended the stairs and walked towards the Louvre.

The discussion had done little to brighten his horizon, and he was oppressed with misgivings as he passed through the streets. Obviously it was absurd to attach importance to the words of an ignorant _valet de chambre_. On the other hand, there was a degree of probability in what he had said which could not be lightly dismissed.

Suddenly an idea possessed him, and his spirits rose with a leap. It occurred from the memory of a remark made by the patron of a _brasserie_ in the Boule Miche.

“Ah, monsieur,” he had said, “it is long since we entertained a customer who spoke with such inspiration on so many subjects.”

The remark had been made after a long sitting in which Wynne had held the attention of a dozen students for several hours while he threw off his red-hot views on art and life in general. As a result the little absorbent mats, upon which the glasses stand, and which mark the number of drinks each man has taken, had piled high.

“I measure the value of conversation,” the patron had continued, “by the amount of bock which is consumed, and tonight has surpassed all previous records. I trust m’sieur will return many times, and place me even more deeply in his debt.”

“By Heaven,” thought Wynne, “I believe he’d pay me a salary to talk.”

So greatly did the belief take hold of him that, unthinkingly, he sprang upon a tram, only to spring off again with the recollection that he had not the wherewithal to pay the fare.

M. le Patron greeted Wynne with amiable courtesy, and invited him to be seated, asking at the same time what manner of drink would be agreeable to his taste.

“I want nothing,” said Wynne, “but the privilege of a few moments’ conversation.”

“That will be delightful; then we will sit together.”

“I do not know if you remember an evening a short while ago when I was here.”

“It is, indeed, one of my pleasantest recollections.”

“On that occasion you were good enough to observe that my conversation resulted in a marked increase in your sales of liquor.”

“And indeed, m’sieur, it was no less than the truth. The nimbleness of m’sieur’s wit, the charm of his address, and the adroitness of his argument are only comparable to those of that most admirable Bohemian, Monsieur Robinson, who, I have no doubt, is well known in England.”

“Probably,” said Wynne, “although I have never heard of him. But to return. I have come here today to make you a business proposition.”

“It is very kind.”

“Not at all. I am obliged to do something of the sort owing to financial difficulties which have suddenly arisen.”

“Tch-tch-tch! How very provoking.”

It was noticeable, however, that the brow of M. le Patron had clouded, and his sympathy was not wholly genuine. Wynne, however, was paying more attention to himself than to the attitude of his hearer.

“What I was about to suggest is this. Encouraged by your words of a month ago, I am willing to occupy a table at your café each night, and to discourse upon all the burning questions of the day. In return for this small service and the undoubted credit it will bring to the establishment, I put forward that you should offer me the hospitality of free meals and a trifle of twenty francs a week for my expenses.”

He delivered the speech with an air of cordiality and condescension designed to introduce the offer in the most favourable light. Hearing his words as he spoke them there remained small doubt in his mind that the astute Frenchman would embrace the opportunity with gratitude. In this, however, he was sadly at fault.

“M’sieur is an original,” came the answer; “but he can hardly be serious.”

“I am entirely serious.”

“Then I fear that, with due regret, I must decline.”

“Decline? But—but the notion was originally your own. I should not have suggested it had it not been that you—”

“Pardon, m’sieur, I see the fault was mine, and my words evidently placed m’sieur under a misapprehension. He will readily perceive, however, that, as patron, it is my duty to be affable, and, although it desolates me to confess so much, it has been my long habit to express to all my more loquacious guests precisely the same sentiments which I addressed to m’sieur on the evening of which he spoke.”

“Oh! has it?” said Wynne, rather dully. “Then there’s no more to be said.”

“Alas! no. It is sad, but what would you? Au revoir, m’sieur.”

“Au ’voir.” He moved a pace away, then turned. “I suppose you haven’t any sort of job you could offer me?”

“Unhappily!” said the patron, and turned to welcome a new arrival.

“I shan’t give up,” muttered Wynne, as he walked moodily down the busy boulevard. “After all, it was only a first attempt.”

But he did not sleep very easily that night. He lay with his eyes open in the dark and wondered what would befall him—where he would be in a week’s time—if what Benoit had said were true. These and a thousand perplexing fears and fancies raced and jostled through his brain. Presently one big thought rose and dominated all the rest.

“I mustn’t forget any of this. It is all valuable—all part of the lesson—part of the training—part of the price which a climber has to pay.”

Then he thought of The Cedars, and of Wallace setting forth to the City after a “good” breakfast.

Wallace would have “sensible” boots, and would carry an umbrella. Wallace would exchange views on the subject of politics or chip-carving with other folk as sober as himself. Wallace would smirk at his employer, and would eat a Cambridge sausage for his lunch. Wallace would go to bed at 10.30 P. M. that he might be ready to do these things again on the morrow. With this reflection there came to Wynne a very glorious satisfaction.

“I wouldn’t change with you,” he said, and turning on his side fell into a comfortable and easy sleep.

[1] The Covent Gardens of Paris.

VIII

The sun was shining brightly when he awoke, and all the little midinettes were in full song.

Wynne sat up in bed and ate a piece of his bread and drank a glass of water. Asked why he did so, he cheerfully replied,

“Moi, je suis ruiné.”

Whereupon the maidens laughed very heartily and said he was a droll.

Wynne had become quite used to the little audience across the way and scarcely took them into consideration. Women, as such, made little or no impression upon him. He liked them well enough, but never cared to better his knowledge or acquaintance with any with whom he had come into contact. Physically they made not the slightest appeal to him—his senses were inert toward the impulse of sex, and he was given to criticize contemptuously those of his companions who staked their emotions in the ways of passion.

“Do not imagine I suffer from moral convictions,” he would say; “but, according to my views, you attach an importance to these matters out of all relation to their value.”

The sentence had inflamed to a very high degree the student to whom it was addressed.

“Fool! Fish!” he had shouted, by way of argument; and again, “Fish! Fish!”

To a running fire of semi-serious sympathy Wynne dressed himself and went out. In a sense he was a little distressed to sacrifice his accustomed cup of early morning chocolate—but this, he argued, was a matter of small concern. A plethora of victuals stagnates the mind, and on this day he had every reason to desire a clear head.

In the Elysée Gardens he found a bench and contracted his brow in meditation. What, he ruminated, were the essentials required to gain a livelihood? Obviously there was a place for every one in this world, or mankind would not survive the ordeal of birth. There was a place for people of every kind of intelligence—a glance at the passers-by proved it, and proved that even the stupid may sometimes prosper. This being so, it was obvious that the wise must prosper even more greatly.

“What have I got to sell?” he asked himself. “What have I got that these other people desire? What can I do that other people can’t do?”

But though he racked his brain he could find no answer to the questions.

After a while he rose and started to walk. He walked fast, as if to escape from his own thoughts, and Fear, so it seemed, walked by his side.

“Nothing,” said Fear—“you have nothing to sell. Nobody wants you—nobody will care if you starve.”

“Go away,” said Wynne. “I tell you I am wanted. I say I shan’t starve.”

“Little idiot! What have you learnt to do but sneer at the real worker? There is no market price for sneers. Sneerers starve—starve! Who are you to laugh at the honest people of the world?”

“I didn’t laugh. I only pitied.”

“How dared you pity—you, who have achieved nothing? Even that small errand boy yonder is a worthier citizen than you—he at least earns his ten francs a week. What have you earned? Only the wage-slave deserves to be a freeman. What is the value of all this trash of art and æsthetics? These are only accessories of life—life itself must be learnt before you can deal in these.”

“But I don’t want to be a wage-slave. I want to be a king.”

“Kingdoms are not won by desire. You must be a subject first.”

“I will be a king—a ruler.”

“A beggar in a week. Come off the heights, little idiot; come down into the plains and lay a road.”

Wynne stopped suddenly in the great quadrangle of the Louvre.

“Right,” he said. “I’ll be content with small beginnings, but show me the way to find them.”

And looking across the cobbled yard he saw three people. They were quite ordinary, and obviously English. There was a middle-aged man with a disposition toward side-whiskers. He carried an umbrella, and wore a severe bowler hat. His clothes spoke of prosperity coupled with a due regard for quiet colours. By his side walked a stout lady, in a tailor-made dress of suburban cut. Upon her head reposed an example of Paris millinery, and consciousness of its beauty gave her face an added tendency to perspire. It was a new hat, and did not seem to have sympathetic relations with her boots. People who go abroad for the first time are apt to overestimate the probable amount of wear their shoe-leather is likely to incur, and guard against walking barefoot by donning boots whose sturdiness would defeat the depredations of a Matterhorn climb.

By the lady’s side was a youth—a very unprepossessing youth too. His face was blotchy, almost as blotchy as his tie. His waistcoat was double-breasted and of a violent grey. He carried a vulgar little cane in his yellow-gloved hand.

That the trio were strangers to the city was indisputably betrayed by the consciousness of their manner and the elaborate precautions they were at to look at everything. The elder man drew attention to a sewer grating in the middle of the quadrangle, and pointed with his umbrella at the pigeons.

Presently they came to a halt, and produced a Baedeker, which provided them with small enlightenment.

“You are supposed to know French,” Wynne heard the elder man say, “then why not ask some one how we get into the place.”

“I can’t,” replied the son.

“Well, all I can say is it seems a very funny thing.”

While conversing they failed to observe the approach of an official guide, who, complete with ingratiating smile and a parchment of credentials, offered to pilot them round the galleries.

At this they at once took flight, with much head-shaking and confusion, and had the misfortune to run into the arms of two more of the fraternity. These two importuned them afresh.

“Certainly not,” said the paterfamilias, as though he had been asked to participate in some very disgraceful orgy.

An Englishman always runs away from a guide, although sooner or later he becomes a victim.

Being aware of this fact, one, more assiduous than the rest, followed them closely with invitations and beseechings, and headed them toward the spot where Wynne was standing. It was clear that the unhappy people were greatly unnerved, and equally clear that in a moment they would cease to retreat, and surrender.

Perceiving this, Wynne was conceived of an idea, and as they came abreast he brought to bear upon the guide with a quick barrage of Paris invective. In effect his words were: “These people are my friends—get out,” although he coloured up the phrase with some generosity. The victory was instantaneous, and a moment later he had raised his hat and was saying:

“I don’t think you will be bothered any more.”

“Very kind of you—very kind,” said the father, mopping his brow. “Great nuisance, these people.” And the lady favoured Wynne with a grateful smile.

“You were about to visit the galleries?”

“Well, we thought we’d take a look round, you know. The thing to do!”

“Oh, quite. Are you familiar with the Louvre?”

“Er, no—no. Can’t say we are—no.”

“H’m. I was wondering if I should offer to conduct you.”

“Hey? Well. Ho! I see! Not a bad idea! What do you say, Ada?”

“It would be very nice.”

“You do this job, then?”

“Occasionally. Not regularly.”

“Well, I don’t mind. Got to see the things, I s’pose.”

“It is customary, isn’t it?” smiled Wynne.

“Hum. How long will it take to do the place?”

“Five years—perhaps a little less.”

The joke was not well received, so Wynne modified it.

“I could show you the more vital points of interest in a couple of hours.”

“Two hours, eh? And you’d want how much an hour?”

Wynne considered. “Should we say five francs?” he suggested.

“Jolly sight too much, I call it,” observed the blotchy youth, whose name was Vincent. “Get a seat at a café chantong for that.”

“Well, what do you say?” said the father.

“I am silent, like the ‘G’ in _chantong_,” replied Wynne. He had begun to feel the spice of adventure in bartering, and would not give ground.

“We mustn’t forget we are on a holiday,” the mother reminded them.

“Let it go,” said the father; “and I only hope it will be worth it.”

“I can promise you it will be more than worth it,” said Wynne, and led the way to the entrance.

As they mounted the stairs, blotchy Vincent plucked at his sleeve and asked, _sotto voce_:

“I say, do you know Paris well?”

“Intimately. Why?”

“I only wondered.”

He nodded toward his parents and shook his head mysteriously.

Wynne was not entirely easy with his conscience at having accepted the post of guide, and determined to justify himself by a great liberality of artistic expression. He therefore began to talk with exceeding rapidity the moment they entered the first gallery.

“This collection is more or less mediocre, although one or two examples are worthy of attention. This Cupid and Psyche, for instance, may at first strike you as insipid, but it presents interesting features. You observe how there is a far greater similarity between the sexes than we find in nature. It is almost as though, by combining the two, the artist sought to arrive at the ideal human form.”

“Dare say he did,” admitted the father, rather uncomfortably, while the mother looked with eyes that saw nothing. Blotchy Vincent, on the other hand, pricked up his ears at the word “sex.”

“One might sum up this school by saying they were inspired by an hermaphroditic tendency.”

“M’yes. Well, I don’t think we need inquire into that. It’s—hardly—er—”

“The same spirit is prevalent in modern French sculpture.”

“I think we will have a look at something else.”

“That’s a nice picture,” said Mrs. Johns—for Johns was the name of the family. “Very nice, I call that—quiet!”

She directed their attention toward a large canvas depicting a lady sitting upon a couch with her legs resting straightly on its flat surface.

“Ah, that _is_ a nice picture,” agreed Mr. Johns.

Vincent, however, lingered before Cupid and Psyche. It did not compare with sundry picture postcards he had seen, but it held greater attractions than the portrait of Madame Récamier.

“I consider the colour is disappointing,” observed Wynne—“disappointing and improbable. When one comes to consider that Madame Récamier held in her day the most popular Salon in Paris, and reflects that to do so she must inevitably have been demimondaine of the demimondaine, one is justified in expecting an added brilliance to the cheeks and an added scarlet to the lips.”

Hereupon Mr. Johns favoured Wynne with a warning look, which he was pleased to ignore.

“This particular canvas is illustrative of what somebody—I think Samuel Butler—said, that a portrait is never so much of the sitter as of the artist. Shall we take some of the older masters next?”

He led the way to an inner gallery, the Johns family trooping behind him. As they passed through the arched doorway Mr. and Mrs. Johns exchanged glances as though to say:

“I think we have made a great mistake introducing this young man into our God-fearing midst!”

Before the canvases of the Old Masters Wynne expanded his views with great liberality. Correggio and Botticelli were favoured with a kindly mention, Rembrandt was patted on the back, and Raphael severely criticized. An ill-advised appreciation of a canvas by Jordeans brought upon Mr. Johns a vigorous attack:

“Oh, believe me, very second-rate indeed. A mere copyist of Rubens, who, himself, in no way justified the position of being a target at which a self-respecting artist should aim. Here is a Titian now—”

“Oh, really!” said Mrs. Johns. “I’ve often heard of Titian red. Do you see, father, that’s a Titian.”

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Johns, consulting his catalogue. “So it is. Seems good!”

“Very wonderful how the colours last so long. Isn’t it pretty, Vincent?”

“I don’t know,” said Vincent, who was very bored. “Dare say it’s all right.”

“I wonder,” remarked Wynne, “if you can detect the fault in that picture.”

Mr. and Mrs. Johns half closed their eyes, by which means they fondly believed faults were more easily detected. After much consideration they produced the joint statement that it looked “a little funny—I don’t know!”

“The fault lies in the fact that there are no faults—which, to my way of thinking, is very heinous.”

“That sounds nonsense to me,” said Mr. Johns, who was getting heartily sick of the whole exposition.

“Not at all. There must be impurity to emphasize purity. Where would the Church be were it not for sinners? What would be the worth of virtue if there were no vice? Therefore I contend that nothing is so imperfect as perfection.”

Carried away by his own arguments, Wynne hurried his charges along to Leonardo’s “Baptist.”

Here he drew breath and started to speak afresh.

“An amazingly happy performance—instinct with life, saturated with humour. You notice the same classic tendency towards sexlessness? In my opinion this is all a painting should be. There is something astonishingly compelling in every line of the form and features.”

“She is certainly very pleasant-looking,” said Mrs. Johns. “Who was the young lady?”

“John the Baptist, madam.”

At this Mr. Johns very properly interposed with:

“I don’t tolerate jokes about the Bible, young man.”

Even Vincent looked as though he expected Wynne to be struck down by some divine and correcting hand. Mrs. Johns was frankly horrified.

“Look at your catalogue,” said Wynne.

This advice Mr. Johns accepted, but even the printed words failed to convince him.

“If that’s John the Baptist,” he remarked, “all I can say is that it’s not _my_ idea of John the Baptist.”

“What is your idea, sir.”

“An elderly gentleman with a beard.”

“With all respect, I think Leonardo’s is preferable. Youth is more appealing than middle age. These half humorous, wholly inspired features would lose the greater measure of their attraction if the lower part of the face were covered with hair.”

“I don’t agree with you, and I don’t consider the subject at all a proper one,” said Mr. Johns sternly. “As for that picture, I am very sorry I’ve seen it.”

It is probable Wynne would have answered hotly had not Vincent advanced a suggestion:

“Why don’t you and the mater sit down for ten minutes,” he said. “This Mr.—er—can take me round for a bit.”

“I’d like to rest my feet,” admitted Mrs. Johns; “the leather has begun to draw.”

So Wynne and Vincent entered the next gallery together.

“My people are all right, you know,” said Vincent; “but they are a bit off in Paris, you know.”

“Oh, really.”

“Yes. _You_ know! Isn’t there anything a bit more lively we can see? I don’t think a lot of these Old Masters—damned if I do.”

Wynne had to bear in mind that he was the servant of these people, and accordingly he replied, civilly enough:

“Perhaps you’d like the more modern school better.”

“I thought French painting was a bit livelier, but it seems about as dud as the Liverpool Art Gallery. Aren’t there any more of those figure pictures?”

“Nudes?”

“That what you call ’em?”

“That is what they are called.”

“Let’s have a look at some, anyway.”

“We’ll go through here, then, and I’ll show you ‘La Source.’ It is considered remarkable flesh painting, although I don’t care for it very particularly.”

As they turned to the modern side, Vincent dropped his voice, and said:

“Pretty hot, Paris, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never been here in the summer,” replied Wynne, an answer which made his companion laugh very heartily.

“You are not giving much away, are you?” he mocked.

“There,” said Wynne; “this is ‘La Source.’”

He halted before Ingres’ masterpiece—the slim figure of a naked girl, a tilted pitcher on her shoulder, from which flows a fall of greeny-white water.

“Remarkable, perhaps, but not art.”

“No,” said Vincent, “I don’t like it either, you know. I see what you mean—it isn’t spicy enough, is it?”

“Spicy?”

“Yes—you know. Look here, I was wanting a chance to speak to you alone. I’ve got a bit of money.”

“You are more fortunate than I.”

“I don’t mind you having a bit of it.”

“Oh.”

“The mater and pater get to bed by 10 o’clock, and I could easily slip out after that.”

“It ought not to be difficult.”

“We could meet, I thought, and you could show me round a bit. See what I’m driving at?”

“No. What _are_ you driving at?”

“I want to see a bit of life, and you’re the chap to show it me.”

And suddenly Wynne became very angry, so angry that his face went pink and white in turns.

“What the hell do you mean?” he exploded. “Do you take me for a disorderly house tout?”

“Shut up—don’t shout.”

“You dirty, pimply— Good God!”

“If you call me names you won’t get your money.”

“Money!” cried Wynne. “D’you think I’d take money from any one who begat a thing like you. Clear out, get away, and tell your father, when next he thinks he’d like a son, to blow out his brains instead.”

Thrusting his hands in his empty pockets, and tossing his head from side to side, Wynne stamped furiously from the gallery and down the steps to the courtyard below.

It was two hours before he recovered an even temper, and then he surprised many passers-by by stopping in the middle of the Rue de Rivoli and shouting with laughter.

“One up to my immortal soul,” he cried. “And now for Les Arles!”

IX

For well-nigh eighteen months Wynne Rendall, seeker of eminence, destroyer of symmetry, professor of æsthetic thought, worked with his hands in little byways of the unfriendly city.

He had come to look on Paris as the unfriendly city, for very shabbily she served him after his money gave out. They laughed at his frail stature and careful, elegant speech when he sought work in the Covent Garden of the French capital, and it was a desperately gaunt and hungry boy who at last found employment in a small _pâtisserie_ somewhere in the neighbourhood of Boulevard Magenta. Things had gone so ill with him that he was rocking on his heels, staring greedily at the cakes in the pastry-cook’s window like any starving urchin. He did not notice the printed card, “Youth wanted,” which stood among the trays. A stout woman behind the counter saw and beckoned him to enter.

“You look hungry,” she said.

“I am.”

Even short sentences were difficult.

“D’you want work?”

“I want to eat.”

“Eating is for people who work. Would you care for a place here, delivering bread? I need some one.”

“I could not be trusted with a loaf,” he said, and fainted.

The stout lady was comparatively kind. She threw water over his face, and when he came to, gave him coffee, a piece of sausage, and some bread. She allowed him to finish, and then told him very plainly he might express gratitude by accepting the post of errand boy at a small wage.

To Wynne it seemed that any wage was acceptable which could be earned in an atmosphere so rich in odours of cooked corn. He said “Yes” almost before she had framed the offer. Later he repented, for the hours of labour were incessant, the food scarce, and the room in which he slept was dirty, damp, and ill-ventilated. Of his weekly earnings, when he had bought himself cigarettes and paid back a certain proportion for lodging, there remained little or nothing. Books, which had hitherto been the breath of life to him, were of necessity denied. Very occasionally he scraped together a few coppers and bought some dusty, broken-backed volume which he scarcely ever found leisure to read. He was too physically fatigued at night for reading, and during the day was kept continually on the run.

He did not stay with the stout lady for long, but the changes he made were rarely of great advantage. Once he found employment at a small stationer’s, which bade fair to prove pleasanter, but from here he fled precipitately on account of the amorous importunities of the stationer’s younger daughter. She, poor child, had lost the affections of a certain artisan, who lodged in the same house, and sought to regain them by exciting jealousy. In the pursuance of this time-worn device she proposed to sacrifice Wynne, and was prepared to go to no mean lengths in order to give the affair a colourable pretence of reality. Wherefore Wynne ran, not so much from the probable fury of the artisan as from a vague fear which he did not entirely understand.

After this episode he became a waiter—or, to be exact, a wine boy. In this branch of employment he was rather happier, although much of it proved irksome and distasteful. He found that a waiter is allowed, and even encouraged, to possess a personality. In the other callings in which he had worked personality was condemned, but customers welcome an individual note in a waiter. It helps them to identify him among his similarly arrayed companions, and affords them opportunity for a lavish expenditure of wit and sarcasm not always in the best taste.

For the first time Wynne was able to save a little money, which he put by towards paying the price of a passage to England. He had decided to leave Paris as soon as he had accumulated enough to pay the cost of travel. In this matter, however, a certain inconsistency forced him to remain. He would save the best part of the two pounds required, and, a day or so before departure, would yield to an irresistible impulse and spend several francs on the purchase of a book. He did this about a dozen times altogether, and although the habit formed the nucleus of a library, it postponed his departure indefinitely.

At last he had in his possession the required sum, and determined to leave Paris at the close of the week, but certain pneumonic cocci floating in the atmosphere and seeking a human abiding place, had other plans for him, and by the Sunday morning, high-temperatured and semi-conscious, he lay in his bed with a perilously slender hold upon life.

M. le Patron had been aware of Wynne’s intention to depart, and had been wishful of retaining his services. Without Wynne it would be impossible for an honest man to display in his window the legend “English spoken,” an announcement which stimulated trade among foreigners.

Accordingly he put himself to the trouble of engaging a doctor, whose injunctions in regard to the treatment of the invalid he very faithfully followed. It should be stated that he was no less faithful in recording the out-of-pocket expenses incurred, which at the close of a six weeks’ illness were presented to Wynne in the manner of a debt.

“It will now be necessary that you shall remain until this sum is restored to me,” he said. “I am generous not to have increased the liability, for times were many when it seemed that I had incurred upon myself the cost of a burial.”

Wynne reckoned that the least time in which he could reasonably hope to clear the score would be from three to four months, and raised his voice in protest.

“But my career, monsieur—what will become of my career?”

Money is one of the few things a Frenchman takes seriously; in nearly all other matters he is possessed of an enchanting elasticity. Wynne’s lamentations were heard without sympathy.

“The debt must be discharged,” said M. le Patron.

So once more Wynne donned his evening clothes with the break of day, once more a serviette swung from the bend of his arm.

Strange to say menial service did not break his spirit or lessen his conceit. There are certain compensations in the life of a waiter if he be an observant fellow. Many and various are the types in which he comes into contact, and there is no surer way of fathoming the character of man than is afforded by watching him at his meat.

To a certain extent Wynne took a pride in his waiting, and made an especial study of the craft. It amused him to “bank” his corners perilously with a pile of plates on his hand; it amused him to whip off the cover of an omelette and introduce it most exquisitely to its future consumer; it amused him to theorise on a customer’s likely choice of wine, and to suggest the vintage as he handed the card. But most of all it amused him to reflect that he, Wynne Rendall, was a waiter. Not for an instant did it occur to him that, up to this point, his achievements had not merited his occupation of a more illustrious position. In the back of his head was a comfortable assurance that he was a very important and valuable person, and this being so, that it was exceedingly droll for him to minister to the wants of the vulgar-minded.

He acquired the habit of jotting down his daily thoughts on odd scraps of paper as he lay in bed at night, and some of these would have made good reading had they been preserved. Also they would have served to show very clearly the streak of egoism which outcropped his entire personality. Occasionally he flew to verse of a style and metre very much his own.

Here is an example:

“Garçon!” In black and white I serve their bellies’ need, Paid with a frown, a curse, a penny in the franc. Will they thank Me with a smile, when, playing on my reed, I bid them hear, and from my cathedra Their silly loves and lusts, dull thoughts and empty creed, In black and white I show them as they are?

The verse in itself has few merits, but it afforded him a sense of luxury to produce such lines. He felt as a king might feel who lay hidden in a hovel, conscious of greatness in little places.

To his brother waiters Wynne was ever remote and a shade cynical. He laughed at, but never with them, and affected a tolerant attitude which they found far from endearing. Occasionally one of the sturdier would attempt to bully him, but in this would seldom prosper. A Frenchman, as a rule, bullies with his tongue rather than his hands, and Wynne’s tongue was ever ready with a lightning counterstroke. These passages were in some respects a repetition of the old schoolday affairs, and since he never forgot a lesson he was well armed to defend himself.

And so the weeks dragged into months and the debt gradually diminished.

X

One bright spring morning, some two years after his arrival in Paris, Wynne received a surprise. A broad-shouldered figure came under the shadow of the awning and seated himself at one of the small round tables.

“It’s Uncle Clem!” gasped Wynne to himself. He straightened his waistcoat and went outside.

“M’sieur!” he said.

“Un bock,” came the reply.

Unrecognized, Wynne retired and returned a moment later with a glass tankard which he set upon the table.

“Beau temps, m’sieur!”

“Ah, oui!”

“Just such another day as the one we spent in Richmond Park together.”

The big Englishman turned his head and raised his eyes sharply.

“Good Gad! It’s the Seeker!” he exclaimed. His hand shot out, enveloped Wynne’s, and wrung it furiously. “Sit down! What the devil are you up to?”

“Waiting,” Wynne smiled; “but I haven’t given up hope.”

“Splendid—and this is fine”—he tweaked the apron. “Serious?”

“Oh, very.”

“A man now, eh?”

“Something of the kind.”

“Fine! though why the hell you couldn’t let us know what had become of you—”

“Touch of pride, Uncle Clem. I neither wanted to please my people nor disappoint you.”

“Ah, now, now, now! None of that—none of it. They wouldn’t gloat and I might have helped.”

Wynne seated himself thoughtfully.

“Yes, I think that’s true; but I wonder if you believe me when I say that never once has it crossed my mind as a way out of the difficulty. When I left home I left finally, not experimentally. If my father were to see me as I am now he would say I had slipped down hill, but I haven’t—I haven’t. Downhill I may have gone with a bit of rush, but I’m gathering impetus all the time, getting up weigh for the climb ahead. You see that, don’t you? This is all to the good, isn’t it?”

There was an honest, genuine sincerity in the way he spoke.

“Every time. All to the good. I should say it is. Hullo! who the devil is this?”

“This” was M. le Patron, highly incensed at the sight of one of his waiters sitting at a table.

“Ça fait rien,” began Uncle Clem. Then to Wynne, “Oh, you tell him it’s all right; tell him I’m your uncle—say you’re coming out for the afternoon. Here’s ten francs. Get your hat, and shove that damned dicky in your pocket. Tell the old fool he’s a good fellah and to go to the devil.”

A certain amount of foregoing advices were translated, and M. le Patron, placated by the ten-franc note, granted Wynne leave of absence and conversed affably with Uncle Clem while Wynne mounted the stairs and changed his coat.

“Come on,” said Uncle Clem. “Let’s get somewhere where we can talk.”

He hailed a fiacre and they drove to the Bois de Boulogne. Here they alighted, and sprawled upon the grass beneath a tree.

“Now let’s have the story from the word Go.”

So Wynne wound himself up and reeled off all his experiences in the unfriendly city. Once or twice during the recital Uncle Clem frowned, and once or twice looked at his nephew in some perplexity, but in the main he nodded encouragement or gave little ejaculations of praise.

“Plucky enough,” he remarked at the close.

“I wonder sometimes. Is it plucky merely to fight for existence?”

“Did you merely fight for existence—was there no impulse behind it all?”

“Yes, the impulse to do and to know has helped me over the stonier parts.”

“The painting was not a success, eh?”

“It isn’t my medium.”

“Have you found out what is?”

The question was hard to answer. It would sound futile to reply, “Writing,” when one had but a few occasional jottings on the back of envelopes to substantiate the claim.

“I haven’t had much time,” said Wynne, ruefully.

“Of course not. After all, the medium doesn’t matter—it’s the motive that counts. Have you determined on your motive?”

“I have learnt enough to show people what they are.”

“Then don’t. That’s a cynic’s task, not an artist’s.”

“Sometimes I think that one is but another name for the other.”

“Not it. An artist shows people what they might be.”

“Yet many have climbed to the peaks” (he was too self-conscious and diffident, with added years, to say the Purple Patch) “by holding up a mirror.”

Uncle Clem shook his head.

“A mirror should only reflect beautiful folk,” he replied. “There are better things than to be a man with a camera.”

“I sometimes wonder if there are.”

“Don’t wonder. Beauty is not to be found by sorting out dustbins. Beauty is in the woods, Wynne. Listen! You can hear the leaves in the tree above us whispering of her, and the little waves in the pool yonder, are leaping up lest they should miss her as she passes by. Can’t you feel the wonder of her everywhere, now in the spring, when she leaps splendid from her winter hiding? D’y’know, when April’s here I throw open my window and look up into the blue and then I see her riding on a cloud. You know the kind of cloud—the great white sort, which brings the summer from the seas. Ha! Yes, and I shout my homage as I brush my hair, and sometimes my poor man Parsons thinks I’m cracked. But what’s the matter if she smiles—for she’s a smiling lady if ever there was one, and her breath is like a breeze which is filtered through a copse of violets.”

“Oh Lord, you are just the same old Uncle Clem as ever,” laughed Wynne.

“Damn your eyes,” came the colloquial rejoinder—“if you’re not patronizing me!”

“Not I. Believe me, I wouldn’t have you different, but perhaps I’ve changed a bit, and these dream pictures aren’t so real as they were.”

“Then make ’em real—they’re worth it.”

Wynne hesitated, then said:

“I’m beginning to see the world as it is, and it doesn’t look like that any longer. I see it as a vast machine built up of cranks and gears, and bolts and cogs—some odd, but mostly even. A thing of wheels and reciprocal activity, for ever revolving and for ever returning to the point from which it started. It’s hard to believe in fairies when one thinks like that.”

“Then don’t think like that, or, if you do, think of the energy that moves the machine—that’s where the mystery and the essence lie. The wheels are nothing—it is the power which drives ’em that counts. Why, heavens above! that should be the task for you, and such as you—to find and refine the essence, to know and increase the power. For God’s sake don’t scorn a thing because it goes round, but give it a push that it may revolve faster. That’s the job! and a fine job too. It’s easy to acquire cheap fame by jeering at a man because he goes to bed at night and gets up in the morning—easy—but no good. Give him something to get up early for and sleep the better for; that’s the way to earn your own repose.”

“And you were the man who first showed me a satyr,” said Wynne.

“And I was the man who told you of the Purple Patch,” came the reply.

“I know, and I shall get there in the end.”

“But not by being of the clever ones. They sit on the lower slopes. They bark—they don’t sing.”

“Up against intellect now?”

“I’m against obvious intellect all the time, because it’s perishable. Look here, I may not make myself clear, but of this I am sure—a great man is not great because he is clever, but he is clever because he is great. The cleverness of the clever is merely an irritant. For a season it may tickle the public palate, but it will never endure.”

“And how does a man become great?”

“By the strength of his ideals. Ideals never perish because they are never wholly realized—besides, they spring from other causes.”

“And what is the fountain of ideals?”

“Feeling—human feeling. Don’t you know that—yet?” He turned a penetrating glance on his nephew. “Never been in love?”

Wynne coloured slightly.

“No,” he replied, “I’ve never been in love.”

“Then be in love.”

“But that’s rather—”

“No it ain’t. You must be in love—it’s God’s great education to mankind. A man knows nothing of himself, or of anything else, unless he is a lover. Happy—wretched—sacred or profane—love is the mighty teacher. What the devil d’you mean by never having been in love?”

Wynne laughed. “Couldn’t I ask the same question of you?” he asked.

“No, you couldn’t, for I always am. Ah, I may not be married—and that is a great blessing for some poor dear unknown—but I’m always in love. Sometimes it’s a girl with whom I have never exchanged a word, sometimes a dead queen or a goddess of ancient times, and sometimes in silly, sordid ways which lonely men will follow. But the spark of love that is, or the spark of a love that was, I keep for ever burning. What sort of life do you imagine mine would be without it?”

“Isn’t there a difference,” said Wynne. “You’re not a striver—you are content—”

“Yes, I’m a loafer—a dilettante—who whistles his song of praise in the country lanes—but—”

“The country lanes are the lover’s lanes; there is no time for love in the great highways. How does the line go? ‘He travels fastest who travels alone.’”

Uncle Clem rose and, stretching out a hand, pulled Wynne to his feet.

“He may travel fast,” he said, “but he don’t get so far. Come on! What do you think—lunch chez Fouquet?”

They made a very excellent déjeuner at the pleasant little restaurant under the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe, and when it was over, and Uncle Clem had produced two delicate Havana cheroots, the conversation turned to Wynne’s future.

“You’ve done enough of this waiting business,” he said. “Better come back with me at the end of the week.”

“Sorry,” said Wynne, “but it won’t run to it yet.”

“Well, I’m your uncle—so that’s that, ain’t it?”

“It’s that as far as the relationship goes, but no farther.”

“D’you mean you won’t be helped?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean I’m not grateful.”

“But look here—”

“Don’t make me,” pleaded Wynne. “It would be so easy that way.”

“But it’s all nonsense. You’ve proved your mettle—no harm relaxing a trifle.”

“I have proved my mettle to the extent of being a waiter,” said Wynne, “and that isn’t as far as I want my mettle to carry me.”

“You might be here for years.”

“Perhaps. It will be my fault if I am. I have to prove my right to climb. Help would disprove it.”

“’Pon my soul I admire your pluck.”

“It’s all you do admire, isn’t it?”

“Ah, get away with you! I talk a lot, that’s all; but I’ve a mighty strong conviction that you’ll do.”

“I’ll do _and_ do,” said Wynne. “Maybe you won’t approve, but I hope you will.”

“I hope so, and believe so—for the elements are yours—but I shan’t tell you so if I don’t.”

With which somewhat cryptic remark they parted. Wynne had not gone very far down the street, however, before he was overtaken by a somewhat breathless Uncle Clem, who said:

“But, for God’s sake, fall in love if you can.”