IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD?
I was spending the month of March 1892 at Mentone, in the Riviera. Atthis retired spot one has all the advantages, privately, which are to behad publicly at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther along. That isto say, one has the flooding sunshine, the balmy air and the brilliantblue sea, without the marring additions of human pow-wow and fuss andfeathers and display. Mentone is quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious;the rich and the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean, the richdo not come there. Now and then a rich man comes, and I presently gotacquainted with one of these. Partially to disguise him I will call himSmith. One day, in the Hotel des Anglais, at the second breakfast, heexclaimed:
'Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out at the door. Take in everydetail of him.'
'Why?'
'Do you know who he is?'
'Yes. He spent several days here before you came. He is an old, retired,and very rich silk manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I guess he isalone in the world, for he always looks sad and dreamy, and doesn't talkwith anybody. His name is Theophile Magnan.'
I supposed that Smith would now proceed to justify the large interestwhich he had shown in Monsieur Magnan, but, instead, he dropped into abrown study, and was apparently lost to me and to the rest of the worldduring some minutes. Now and then he passed his fingers through hisflossy white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he allowed hisbreakfast to go on cooling. At last he said:
'No, it's gone; I can't call it back.'
'Can't call what back?'
'It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little stories. But it's gone frome. Part of it is like this: A child has a caged bird, which it lovesbut thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song unheard andunheeded; but, in time, hunger and thirst assail the creature, and itssong grows plaintive and feeble and finally ceases--the bird dies. Thechild comes, and is smitten to the heart with remorse: then, with bittertears and lamentations, it calls its mates, and they bury the bird withelaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without knowing, poor things,that it isn't children only who starve poets to death and then spendenough on their funerals and monuments to have kept them alive and madethem easy and comfortable. Now--'
But here we were interrupted. About ten that evening I ran acrossSmith, and he asked me up to his parlour to help him smoke and drink hotScotch. It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its cheerfullamps, and its friendly open fire of seasoned olive-wood. To makeeverything perfect, there was a muffled booming of the surf outside.After the second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat, Smith said:
'Now we are properly primed--I to tell a curious history and you tolisten to it. It has been a secret for many years--a secret betweenme and three others; but I am going to break the seal now. Are youcomfortable?'
'Perfectly. Go on.'
Here follows what he told me:
'A long time ago I was a young artist--a very young artist, in fact--andI wandered about the country parts of France, sketching here andsketching there, and was presently joined by a couple of darling youngFrenchmen who were at the same kind of thing that I was doing. We wereas happy as we were poor, or as poor as we were happy--phrase it to suityourself. Claude Frere and Carl Boulanger--these are the names of thoseboys; dear, dear fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed atpoverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.
'At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village, and an artist as pooras ourselves took us in and literally saved us from starving--FrancoisMillet--'
'What! the great Francois Millet?'
'Great? He wasn't any greater than we were, then. He hadn't any fame,even in his own village; and he was so poor that he hadn't anything tofeed us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us sometimes. Wefour became fast friends, doting friends, inseparables. We painted awaytogether with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock, but veryseldom getting rid of any of it. We had lovely times together; but, O mysoul! how we were pinched now and then!
'For a little over two years this went on. At last, one day, Claudesaid:
'"Boys, we've come to the end. Do you understand that?--absolutely tothe end. Everybody has struck--there's a league formed against us. I'vebeen all around the village and it's just as I tell you. They refuse tocredit us for another centime until all the odds and ends are paid up."
'This struck us as cold. Every face was blank with dismay. We realisedthat our circumstances were desperate, now. There was a long silence.Finally, Millet said with a sigh:
'"Nothing occurs to me--nothing. Suggest something, lads."
'There was no response, unless a mournful silence may be called aresponse. Carl got up, and walked nervously up and down a while, thensaid:
'"It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks and stacks of as goodpictures as anybody in Europe paints--I don't care who he is. Yes,and plenty of lounging strangers have said the same--or nearly that,anyway."
'"But didn't buy," Millet said.
'"No matter, they said it; and it's true, too. Look at your 'Angelus'there! Will anybody tell me--"
'"Pah, Carl--My 'Angelus!' I was offered five francs for it."
'"When?"
'"Who offered it?"
'"Where is he?"
'"Why didn't you take it?"
'"Come--don't all speak at once. I thought he would give more--I wassure of it--he looked it--so I asked him eight."
'"Well--and then?"
'"He said he would call again."
'"Thunder and lightning! Why, Francois--"
'"Oh, I know--I know! It was a mistake, and I was a fool. Boys, I meantfor the best; you'll grant me that, and I--"
'"Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear heart; but don't you bea fool again."
'"I? I wish somebody would come along and offer us a cabbage forit--you'd see!"
'"A cabbage! Oh, don't name it--it makes my mouth water. Talk of thingsless trying."
'"Boys," said Carl, "do these pictures lack merit? Answer me that."
'"No!"
'"Aren't they of very great and high merit? Answer me that."
'"Yes."
'"Of such great and high merit that, if an illustrious name wereattached to them they would sell at splendid prices. Isn't it so?"
'"Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that."
'"But--I'm not joking--isn't it so?"
'"Why, of course it's so--and we are not joking. But what of it. What ofit? How does that concern us?"
'"In this way, comrades--we'll attach an illustrious name to them!"
'The lively conversation stopped. The faces were turned inquiringly uponCarl. What sort of riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious nameto be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?
'Carl sat down, and said:
'"Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to propose. I think it is theonly way to keep us out of the almshouse, and I believe it to be aperfectly sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multitudinous andlong-established facts in human history. I believe my project will makeus all rich."
'"Rich! You've lost your mind."
'"No, I haven't."
'"Yes, you have--you've lost your mind. What do you call rich?"
'"A hundred thousand francs apiece."
'"He has lost his mind. I knew it."
'"Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too much for you, and--"
'"Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to bed."
'"Bandage him first--bandage his head, and then--"
'"No, bandage his heels; his brains have been settling for weeks--I'venoticed it."
'"Shut up!" said Millet, with ostensible severity, "and let the boy havehis say. Now, then--come out with your project, Carl. What is it?"
'"Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you to note this fact inhuman history: that the merit of many a great artist has never beenacknowledged until after he was starved and dead. This has happened sooften that I make bold to found a law upon it. This law: that the
meritof every great unknown and neglected artist must and will be recognisedand his pictures climb to high prices after his death. My project isthis: we must cast lots--one of us must die."
'The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly that we almost forgot tojump. Then there was a wild chorus of advice again--medical advice--forthe help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for the hilarity tocalm down, and then went on again with his project:
'"Yes, one of us must die, to save the others--and himself. We will castlots. The one chosen shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich. Holdstill, now--hold still; don't interrupt--I tell you I know what I amtalking about. Here is the idea. During the next three months the onewho is to die shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all hecan--not pictures, no! skeleton sketches, studies, parts of studies,fragments of studies, a dozen dabs of the brush on each--meaningless, ofcourse, but his, with his cipher on them; turn out fifty a day, each tocontain some peculiarity or mannerism easily detectable as his--they'rethe things that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous prices forthe world's museums, after the great man is gone; we'll have a tonof them ready--a ton! And all that time the rest of us will be busysupporting the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers--preparationsfor the coming event, you know; and when everything is hot and justright, we'll spring the death on them and have the notorious funeral.You get the idea?"
'"N-o; at least, not qu--"
'"Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't really die; he changes hisname and vanishes; we bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the worldto help. And I--"
'But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody broke out into a rousinghurrah of applause; and all jumped up and capered about the room andfell on each other's necks in transports of gratitude and joy. For hourswe talked over the great plan, without ever feeling hungry; and at last,when all the details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots andMillet was elected--elected to die, as we called it. Then we scrapedtogether those things which one never parts with until he is bettingthem against future wealth--keepsake trinkets and suchlike--and these wepawned for enough to furnish us a frugal farewell supper and breakfast,and leave us a few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips andsuch for Millet to live on for a few days.
'Next morning, early, the three of us cleared out, straightway afterbreakfast--on foot, of course. Each of us carried a dozen of Millet'ssmall pictures, purposing to market them. Carl struck for Paris, wherehe would start the work of building up Millet's name against the cominggreat day. Claude and I were to separate, and scatter abroad overFrance.
'Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy and comfortable thing wehad. I walked two days before I began business. Then I began to sketcha villa in the outskirts of a big town--because I saw the proprietorstanding on an upper veranda. He came down to look on--I thought hewould. I worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested. Occasionallyhe fired off a little ejaculation of approbation, and by-and-by he spokeup with enthusiasm, and said I was a master!
'I put down my brush, reached into my satchel, fetched out a Millet, andpointed to the cipher in the corner. I said, proudly:
'"I suppose you recognise that? Well, he taught me! I should think Iought to know my trade!"
'The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was silent. I saidsorrowfully:
'"You don't mean to intimate that you don't know the cipher of FrancoisMillet!"
'Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he was the gratefullest manyou ever saw, just the same, for being let out of an uncomfortable placeon such easy terms. He said:
'"No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I don't know what I could havebeen thinking of. Of course I recognise it now."
'Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that although I wasn't rich Iwasn't that poor. However, at last, I let him have it for eight hundredfrancs.'
'Eight hundred!'
'Yes. Millet would have sold it for a pork chop. Yes, I got eighthundred francs for that little thing. I wish I could get it back foreighty thousand. But that time's gone by. I made a very nice pictureof that man's house and I wanted to offer it to him for ten francs, butthat wouldn't answer, seeing I was the pupil of such a master, so I soldit to him for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs straight toMillet from that town and struck out again next day.
'But I didn't walk--no. I rode. I have ridden ever since. I sold onepicture every day, and never tried to sell two. I always said to mycustomer:
'"I am a fool to sell a picture of Francois Millet's at all, for thatman is not going to live three months, and when he dies his picturescan't be had for love or money."
'I took care to spread that little fact as far as I could, and preparethe world for the event.
'I take credit to myself for our plan of selling the pictures--it wasmine. I suggested it that last evening when we were laying out ourcampaign, and all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial beforegiving it up for some other. It succeeded with all of us. I walked onlytwo days, Claude walked two--both of us afraid to make Millet celebratedtoo close to home--but Carl walked only half a day, the bright,conscienceless rascal, and after that he travelled like a duke.
'Every now and then we got in with a country editor and started an itemaround through the press; not an item announcing that a new painter hadbeen discovered, but an item which let on that everybody knew FrancoisMillet; not an item praising him in any way, but merely a wordconcerning the present condition of the "master"--sometimes hopeful,sometimes despondent, but always tinged with fears for the worst. Wealways marked these paragraphs, and sent the papers to all the peoplewho had bought pictures of us.
'Carl was soon in Paris and he worked things with a high hand. He madefriends with the correspondents, and got Millet's condition reported toEngland and all over the continent, and America, and everywhere.
'At the end of six weeks from the start, we three met in Paris andcalled a halt, and stopped sending back to Millet for additionalpictures. The boom was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw thatit would be a mistake not to strike now, right away, without waiting anylonger. So we wrote Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away prettyfast, for we should like him to die in ten days if he could get ready.
'Then we figured up and found that among us we had sold eighty-fivesmall pictures and studies, and had sixty-nine thousand francs to showfor it. Carl had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of all.He sold the "Angelus" for twenty-two hundred francs. How we did glorifyhim!--not foreseeing that a day was coming by-and-by when France wouldstruggle to own it and a stranger would capture it for five hundred andfifty thousand, cash.
'We had a wind-up champagne supper that night, and next day Claude andI packed up and went off to nurse Millet through his last days and keepbusybodies out of the house and send daily bulletins to Carl in Parisfor publication in the papers of several continents for the informationof a waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl was there in timeto help in the final mournful rites.
'You remember that great funeral, and what a stir it made all overthe globe, and how the illustrious of two worlds came to attend it andtestify their sorrow. We four--still inseparable--carried the coffin,and would allow none to help. And we were right about that, because ithadn't anything in it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearerswould have found fault with the weight. Yes, we same old four, who hadlovingly shared privation together in the old hard times now gone forever, carried the cof--'
'Which four?'
'We four--for Millet helped to carry his own coffin. In disguise, youknow. Disguised as a relative--distant relative.'
'Astonishing!'
'But true just the same. Well, you remember how the pictures went up.Money? We didn't know what to do with it. There's a man in Paris to-daywho owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid us two million francs forthem. And as for the bushels of sketches and studies which Milletshovelled out during the six weeks that we were on the road, well, itwould astonish you to know the
figure we sell them at nowadays--that is,when we consent to let one go!'
'It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!'
'Yes--it amounts to that.'
'Whatever became of Millet?'
'Can you keep a secret?'
'I can.'
'Do you remember the man I called your attention to in the dining roomto-day? That was Francois Millet.'
'Great--'
'Scott! Yes. For once they didn't starve a genius to death and thenput into other pockets the rewards he should have had himself. Thissong-bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard and then be paidwith the cold pomp of a big funeral. We looked out for that.'