CHAPTER X. THE RECONCILIATION BETWEEN FATHER AND SON.
We pass over an interval of some months.
A painter stood at work at the easel, his human model before him. Hewas employed on a nymph,--the Nymph Galatea. The subject had been takenbefore by Salvator, whose genius found all its elements in thewild rocks, gnarled, fantastic trees, and gushing waterfalls of thelandscape; in the huge ugliness of Polyphemus the lover; in the graceand suavity and unconscious abandonment of the nymph, sleeking hertresses dripping from the bath. The painter, on a larger canvas (forSalvator's picture, at least the one we have seen, is among the smallsketches of the great artistic creator of the romantic and grotesque),had transferred the subject of the master; but he had left subordinatethe landscape and the giant, to concentrate all his art on the person ofthe nymph. Middle-aged was the painter, in truth; but he looked old.His hair, though long, was gray and thin; his face was bloated byintemperance; and his hand trembled much, though, from habit, no traceof the tremor was visible in his work.
A boy, near at hand, was also employed on the same subject, with a roughchalk and a bold freedom of touch. He was sketching his design of aGalatea and Polyphemus on the wall; for the wall was only whitewashed,and covered already with the multiform vagaries whether of master orpupils,--caricatures and demigods, hands and feet, torsos and monsters,and Venuses. The rude creations, all mutilated, jarring, and mingled,gave a cynical, mocking, devil-may-care kind of aspect to the sanctum ofart. It was like the dissection-room of the anatomist. The boy's sketchwas more in harmony with the walls of the studio than the canvas of themaster. His nymph, accurately drawn, from the undressed proportions ofthe model, down to the waist, terminated in the scales of a fish. Theforked branches of the trees stretched weird and imp-like as the handsof skeletons. Polyphemus, peering over the rocks, had the leer of ademon; and in his gross features there was a certain distorted, hideouslikeness of the grave and symmetrical lineaments of Olivier Dalibard.
All around was slovenly, squalid, and poverty-stricken,--rickety,worn-out, rush-bottom chairs; unsold, unfinished pictures, pell-mellin the corner, covered with dust; broken casts of plaster; a lay-figurebattered in its basket-work arms, with its doll-like face all smudgedand besmeared. A pot of porter and a noggin of gin on a stained dealtable, accompanied by two or three broken, smoke-blackened pipes, sometattered song-books, and old numbers of the "Covent Garden Magazine,"betrayed the tastes of the artist, and accounted for the shaking handand the bloated form. A jovial, disorderly, vagrant dog of a painter wasTom Varney. A bachelor, of course; humorous and droll; a boon companion,and a terrible borrower. Clever enough in his calling; with pains andsome method, he had easily gained subsistence and established a name;but he had one trick that soon ruined him in the business part of hisprofession. He took a fourth of his price in advance; and having onceclutched the money, the poor customer might go hang for his picture.The only things Tom Varney ever fairly completed were those for whichno order had been given; for in them, somehow or other, his fancy becameinterested, and on them he lavished the gusto which he really possessed.But the subjects were rarely salable. Nymphs and deities undraperiedhave few worshippers in England amongst the buyers of "furniturepictures." And, to say truth, nymph and deity had usually a veryequivocal look; and if they came from the gods, you would swear it wasthe gods of the galleries of Drury. When Tom Varney sold a picture,he lived upon clover till the money was gone. But the poorer and lesssteady alumni of the rising school, especially those at war with theAcademy, from which Varney was excluded, pitied, despised, yet likedand courted him withal. In addition to his good qualities of blithesong-singer, droll story-teller, and stanch Bacchanalian, Tom Varney wasliberally good-natured in communicating instruction really valuable tothose who knew how to avail themselves of a knowledge he had made almostworthless to himself. He was a shrewd, though good-natured critic, hadmany little secrets of colouring and composition, which an invitation tosupper, or the loan of ten shillings, was sufficient to bribe from him.Ragged, out of elbows, unshaven, and slipshod, he still had his setamongst the gay and the young,--a precious master, a profitable set forhis nephew, Master Honore Gabriel! But the poor rapscallion had a heartlarger than many honest, painstaking men. As soon as Gabriel had foundhim out, and entreated refuge from his fear of his father, the painterclasped him tight in his great slovenly arms, sold a Venus half-price tobuy him a bed and a washstand, and swore a tremendous oath that the sonof his poor guillotined sister should share the last shilling in hispocket, the last drop in his can.
Gabriel, fresh from the cheer of Laughton, and spoiled by the prodigalgifts of Lucretia, had little gratitude for shillings and porter.Nevertheless, he condescended to take what he could get, while hesighed, from the depths of a heart in which cupidity and vanity hadbecome the predominant rulers, for a destiny more worthy his genius, andmore in keeping with the sphere from which he had descended.
The boy finished his sketch, with an impudent wink at the model, flunghimself back on his chair, folded his arms, cast a discontented glanceat the whitened seams of the sleeves, and soon seemed lost in his ownreflections. The painter worked on in silence. The model, whom Gabriel'swink had aroused, half-flattered, half-indignant for a moment, lapsedinto a doze. Outside the window, you heard the song of a canary,--adingy, smoke-coloured canary that seemed shedding its plumes, for theywere as ragged as the garments of its master; still, it contrived tosing, trill-trill-trill-trill-trill, as blithely as if free in itsnative woods, or pampered by fair hands in a gilded cage. The bird wasthe only true artist there, it sang as the poet sings,--to obey itsnature and vent its heart. Trill-trill-trillela-la-la-trill-trill, wentthe song,--louder, gayer than usual; for there was a gleam of Aprilsunshine struggling over the rooftops. The song at length roused upGabriel; he turned his chair round, laid his head on one side, listened,and looked curiously at the bird.
At length an idea seemed to cross him; he rose, opened the window, drewin the cage, placed it on the chair, then took up one of his uncle'spipes, walked to the fireplace, and thrust the shank of the pipe intothe bars. When it was red-hot he took it out by the bowl, having firstprotected his hand from the heat by wrapping round it his handkerchief;this done, he returned to the cage. His movements had wakened up thedozing model. She eyed them at first with dull curiosity, then withlively suspicion; and presently starting up with an exclamation such asno novelist but Fielding dare put into the mouth of a female,--much lessa nymph of such renown as Galatea,--she sprang across the room, wellnighupsetting easel and painter, and fastened firm hold on Gabriel'sshoulders.
"The varment!" she cried vehemently; "the good-for-nothing varment! Ifit had been a jay, or a nasty raven, well and good; but a poor littlecanary!"
"Hoity-toity! what are you about, nephew? What's the matter?" said TomVarney, coming up to the strife. And, indeed, it was time; for Gabriel'steeth were set in his catlike jaws, and the glowing point of thepipe-shank was within an inch of the cheek of the model.
"What's the matter?" replied Gabriel, suddenly; "why, I was only goingto try a little experiment."
"An experiment? Not on my canary, poor dear little thing! The hours andhours that creature has strained its throat to say 'Sing and be merry,'when I had not a rap in my pocket! It would have made a stone feel tohear it."
"But I think I can make it sing much better than ever,--only just let metry! They say that if you put out the eyes of a canary, it--"
Gabriel was not allowed to conclude his sentence; for here rose thatclamour of horror and indignation from both painter and model whichusually greets the announcement of every philosophical discovery,--atleast, when about to be practically applied; and in the midst of thehubbub, the poor little canary, who had been fluttering about the cageto escape the hand of the benevolent operator, set up no longer thecheerful trill-trillela-la-trill, but a scared and heart-breakingchirp,--a shrill, terrified twit-twit-twitter-twit.
"Damn the bird! Hold your tongues!" cried Gabriel Varney, reluctant
lygiving way, but still eying the bird with the scientific regret withwhich the illustrious Majendie might contemplate a dog which some bruteof a master refused to disembowel for the good of the colics of mankind.
The model seized on the cage, shut the door of the wires, and carried itoff. Tom Varney drained the rest of his porter, and wiped his foreheadwith the sleeve of his coat.
"And to use my pipe for such cruelty! Boy, boy, I could not havebelieved it! But you were not in earnest; oh, no, impossible! Sukey, mylove--Galatea the divine--calm thy breast; Cupid did but jest.
'Cupid is the God of Laughter, Quip and jest and joke, sir.'"
"If you don't whip the little wretch within an inch of his life, he'llhave a gallows end on't," replied Galatea.
"Go, Cupid, go and kiss Galatea, and make your peace.
`Oh, leave a kiss within the cup, And I'll not ask for wine.'
And 't is no use asking for wine, or for gin either,--not a drop in thenoggin!"
All this while Gabriel, disdaining the recommendations held forth tohim, was employed in brushing his jacket with a very mangy-lookingbrush; and when he had completed that operation he approached his uncle,and coolly thrust his hands into that gentleman's waistcoat-pockets.
"Uncle, what have you done with those seven shillings? I am going out tospend the day."
"If you give them to him, Tom, I'll scratch your eyes out," cried themodel; "and then we'll see how you'll sing. Whip him, I say, whip him!"
But, strange to say, this liberty of the boy quite reopened the heartof his uncle,--it was a pleasure to him, who put his hands so habituallyinto other people's pockets, to be invested with the novel grandeurof the man sponged upon. "That's right, Cupid, son of Cytherea; all'scommon property amongst friends. Seven shillings, I have 'em not. 'Theynow are five who once were seven;' but such as they are, we'll share.
'Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown.'"
"Crowns bear no division, my uncle," said Gabriel, dryly; and hepocketed the five shillings. Then, having first secured his escape bygaining the threshold, he suddenly seized one of the rickety chairs byits leg, and regardless of the gallantries due to the sex, sent it rightagainst the model, who was shaking her fist at him. A scream and afall and a sharp twit from the cage, which was hurled nearly into thefireplace, told that the missive had taken effect. Gabriel did not waitfor the probable reaction; he was in the streets in an instant. "Thiswon't do," he muttered to himself; "there is no getting on here. Foolishdrunken vagabond! no good to be got from him. My father is terrible, buthe will make his way in the world. Umph! if I were but his match,--andwhy not? I am brave, and he is not. There's fun, too, in danger."
Thus musing, he took his way to Dalibard's lodgings. His father was athome. Now, though they were but lodgings, and the street not in fashion,Olivier Dalibard's apartments had an air of refinement, and evenelegance, that contrasted both the wretched squalor of the abode Gabrielhad just left and the meanness of Dalibard's former quarters in London,The change seemed to imply that the Provencal had already made some wayin the world. And, truth to say, at all times, even in the lowest ebbof his fortunes, there was that indescribable neatness and formality ofprecision about all the exterior seemings of the ci-devant friend ofthe prim Robespierre which belong to those in whom order and method arestrongly developed,--qualities which give even to neediness a certaindignity. As the room and its owner met the eye of Gabriel, on whosesenses all externals had considerable influence, the ungrateful youngruffian recalled the kind, tattered, slovenly uncle, whose purse he hadjust emptied, without one feeling milder than disgust. Olivier Dalibard,always careful, if simple, in his dress, with his brow of graveintellectual power, and his mien imposing, not only from its calm, butfrom that nameless refinement which rarely fails to give to the studentthe air of a gentleman,--Olivier Dalibard he might dread, he might evendetest; but he was not ashamed of him.
"I said I would visit you, sir, if you would permit me," said Gabriel,in a tone of respect, not unmingled with some defiance, as if in doubtof his reception.
The father's slow full eye, so different from the sidelong, furtiveglance of Lucretia, turned on the son, as if to penetrate his veryheart.
"You look pale and haggard, child; you are fast losing your healthand beauty. Good gifts these, not to be wasted before they can beduly employed. But you have taken your choice. Be an artist,--copy TomVarney, and prosper." Gabriel remained silent, with his eyes on thefloor.
"You come in time for my farewell," resumed Dalibard. "It is a comfort,at least, that I leave your youth so honourably protected. I am about toreturn to my country; my career is once more before me!"
"Your country,--to Paris?"
"There are fine pictures in the Louvre,--a good place to inspire anartist!"
"You go alone, Father!"
"You forget, young gentleman, you disown me as father! Go alone! Ithought I told you in the times of our confidence, that I should marryLucretia Clavering. I rarely fail in my plans. She has lost Laughton,it is true; but 10,000 pounds will make a fair commencement to fortune,even at Paris. Well, what do you want with me, worthy godson of HonoreGabriel Mirabeau?"
"Sir, if you will let me, I will go with you."
Dalibard shaded his brow with his hand, and reflected on the filialproposal. On the one hand, it might be convenient, and would certainlybe economical, to rid himself evermore of the mutinous son who hadalready thrown off his authority; on the other hand, there was muchin Gabriel, mutinous and even menacing as he had lately become, thatpromised an unscrupulous tool or a sharp-witted accomplice, withinterests that every year the ready youth would more and more discoverwere bound up in his plotting father's. This last consideration, joined,if not to affection, still to habit,--to the link between blood andblood, which even the hardest find it difficult to sever,--prevailed. Heextended his pale hand to Gabriel, and said gently,--
"I will take you, if we rightly understand each other. Once again in mypower, I might constrain you to my will, it is true. But I rather conferwith you as man to man than as man to boy."
"It is the best way," said Gabriel, firmly.
"I will use no harshness, inflict no punishment,--unless, indeed, amplymerited by stubborn disobedience or wilful deceit. But if I meet withthese, better rot on a dunghill than come with me! I ask implicitconfidence in all my suggestions, prompt submission to all my requests.Grant me but these, and I promise to consult your fortune as my own, togratify your tastes as far as my means will allow, to grudge not yourpleasures, and when the age for ambition comes, to aid your rise if Irise myself,--nay, if well contented with you, to remove the blot fromyour birth, by acknowledging and adopting you formally as my son."
"Agreed! and I thank you," said Gabriel. "And Lucretia is going? Oh, Iso long to see her!"
"See her--not yet; but next week."
"Do not fear that I should let out about the letter. I should betraymyself if I did," said the boy, bluntly betraying his guess at hisfather's delay.
The evil scholar smiled.
"You will do well to keep it secret for your own sake; for mine, Ishould not fear. Gabriel, go back now to your master,--you do right,like the rats, to run from the falling house. Next week I will send foryou, Gabriel!"
Not, however, back to the studio went the boy. He sauntered leisurelythrough the gayest streets, eyed the shops and the equipages, the fairwomen and the well-dressed men,--eyed with envy and longings and visionsof pomps and vanities to come; then, when the day began to close, hesought out a young painter, the wildest and maddest of the crew to whomhis uncle had presented their future comrade and rival, and went withthis youth, at half-price, to the theatre, not to gaze on the actorsor study the play, but to stroll in the saloon. A supper in theFinish completed the void in his pockets, and concluded his day's rankexperience of life. By the gray dawn he stole back to his bed, and ashe laid himself down, he thought with avid pleasure of Paris, its gaygardens and brilliant shops and crowded streets; he thought,
too, ofhis father's calm confidence of success, of the triumph that alreadyhad attended his wiles,--a confidence and a triumph which, excitinghis reverence and rousing his emulation, had decided his resolution.He thought, too, of Lucretia with something of affection, recalled herpraises and bribes, her frequent mediation with his father, and feltthat they should have need of each other. Oh, no, he never would tellher of the snare laid at Guy's Oak,--never, not even if incensed withhis father. An instinct told him that that offence could never beforgiven, and that, henceforth, Lucretia's was a destiny bound up in hisown. He thought, too, of Dalibard's warning and threat. But with fearitself came a strange excitement of pleasure,--to grapple, if necessary,he a mere child, with such a man! His heart swelled at the thought. Soat last he fell asleep, and dreamed that he saw his mother's trunklessface dripping gore and frowning on him,--dreamed that he heard her say:"Goest thou to the scene of my execution only to fawn upon my murderer?"Then a nightmare of horrors, of scaffolds and executioners and grinningmobs and agonized faces, came on him,--dark, confused, and indistinct.And he woke, with his hair standing on end, and beard below, in therising sun, the merry song of the poor canary,--trill-lill-lill,trill-trill-lill-lill-la! Did he feel glad that his cruel hand had beenstayed?