Part 25
"_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? à se boucher les oreilles_! 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 _me_!
"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 everything! _ce pauvre Litrebili, ce qu'il a perdu_!
"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!' 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--_à l'envers_--and reflected back on him, as from a mirror ... _un écho, un simulacre, quoi! pas autre chose!_.... 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 moque pas mal, ce fameux violon!_ ...
"And _our_ Trilby ... what did she know of Schumann, Chopin?--nothing at all! She mocked herself not badly of Nussbaums and impromptus ... they would make her yawn to demantibulate her jaws!... When Svengali's Trilby was being taught to sing ... when Svengali's Trilby was singing--or seemed to _you_ as if she were singing--_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!... 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! 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!... 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!... Got sei dank! Ich habe _geliebt und gelebet! geliebt und gelebet! geliebt und gelebet!_ Cristo di Dio.... Sweet sister in heaven.... Ô Dieu de Misère, ayez pitié de nous...."
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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, "V'là, 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 down-stairs, 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 which was kept, one may be sure.
Gecko uncovered his fuzzy white head, and took Mrs. 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:
"Ah! bon--connais bien, celui là; vous savez--c'est lui qui joue du violon aux Mouches d'Espagne! Il a soupé, l'bourgeois; n'est-ce pas, m'sieur? 'petits bonheurs de contrebande,' hein?... ayez pas peur! on vous aura soin de lui! il joue joliment bien, m'sieur; n'est-ce pas?"
Taffy shook Gecko's hand, and asked,
"Où restez-vous, Gecko?"
"Quarante-huit, Rue des Pousse-cailloux, au cinquième."
"How strange!" said Taffy to his wife--"how touching! why, that's where Trilby used to live--the very number! the very floor!"
"Oui, oui," said Gecko, waking up; "c'est l'ancienne mansarde à Trilby--j'y suis depuis douze ans--_j'y suis, j'y 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' côté de l'eau--près 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:
"V'là mon mari qui r'garde-- Prends garde! Ne m'chatouill' 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, flopety-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, hum-drum, happy domestic existence--than which there is no better that I know of, at their time of life--and no better time of life than theirs!
"_Où peut-on être mieux qu'au sein de ta famille?_"
That blessed harbor 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!
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The following typographical errors have been corrected by the etext transcriber:
Stendahl and George Sand=>Stendhal and George Sand
déjà debout après heir soir?=>déjà debout après hier soir?
Madame Boisse's, in the Rue des Cloitres Ste. Pétronille.=>Madame Boisse's, in the Rue des Cloîtres Ste. Pétronille.
But the mere sight of a boxing-glove make him sick=>But the mere sight of a boxing-glove made him sick
excuted a series of cancan steps=>executed a series of cancan steps
"A--a--its the _Origin of Species_, by Charles Darwin.=>"A--a--it's the _Origin of Species_, by Charles Darwin.
Pavilon de Flore=>Pavillon de Flore
Quelle nouvelles apportez=>Quelles nouvelles apportez
the hum of lively talk was great, and "la Sevengali" was in every mouth=>the hum of lively talk was great, and "la Svengali" was in every mouth
beautiful blue barouch with C springs=>beautiful blue barouche with C springs
Then M. Carrell came every day to chat with his favorite pupil=>Then M. Carrel came every day to chat with his favorite pupil
Trilbiness=>Trilbyness
Tireliard=>Tire-Liard
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