In the Days of My Youth: A Novel

by Amelia Ann Blanford Edwards

  CHAPTER XLVI.

  THERMOPYLAE.

  How dreary 'tis for women to sit still On winter nights by solitary fires, And hear the nations praising them far off.

  AURORA LEIGH.

  Abolished by the National Convention of 1793, re-established in 1795,reformed by the first Napoleon in 1803, and remodelled in 1816 on therestoration of the Bourbons, the Academie Francaise, despite its changesof fortune, name, and government, is a liberal and splendid institution.It consists of forty members, whose office it is to compile the greatdictionary, and to enrich, purify, and preserve the language. It assistsauthors in distress. It awards prizes for poetry, eloquence, and virtue;and it bestows those honors with a noble impartiality that observes nodistinction of sex, rank, or party. To fill one of the forty fauteuilsof the Academie Francaise is the darling ambition of every eminentFrenchman of letters. There the poet, the philosopher, the historian,the man of science, sit side by side, and meet on equal ground. When aseat falls vacant, when a prize is to be awarded, when an anniversary isto be celebrated, the interest and excitement become intense. To thepolitical, the fashionable, or the commercial world, these events areperhaps of little moment. They affect neither the Bourse nor the Budget.They exercise no perceptible influence on the Longchamps toilettes. Butto the striving author, to the rising orator, to all earnest workers inthe broad fields of literature, they are serious and significantcircumstances.

  Living out of society as I now did, I knew little and cared less forthese academic crises. The success of one candidate was as unimportantto me as the failure of another; and I had more than once read thecrowned poem of the prize essay without even glancing at the name or thefortunate author.

  Now it happened that, pacing to and fro under the budding acacias of thePalais Royal garden one sunny spring-like morning, some three or fourweeks after the conversation last recorded, I was pursued by apersecuting newsvender with a hungry eye, mittened fingers, and a shrillvoice, who persisted in reiterating close against my ear:--

  "News of the day, M'sieur!--news of the day. Frightful murder in the Ruedu Faubourg St. Antoine--state of the Bourse--latest despatches from theseat of war--prize poem crowned by the Academie Francaise--news of theday, M'sieur! Only forty centimes! News of the day!"

  I refused, however, to be interested in any of those topics, turned adeaf ear to his allurements, and peremptorily dismissed him. I thencontinued my walk in solitary silence.

  At the further extremity of the square, near the _Galerie Vitree_ andclose beside the little newspaper kiosk, stood a large tree since cutdown, which at that time served as an advertising medium, and was dailydecorated with a written placard, descriptive of the contents of the_Moniteur_, the _Presse_, and other leading papers. This placard wasgenerally surrounded by a crowd of readers, and to-day the crowd ofreaders was more than usually dense.

  I seldom cared in these days for what was going on in the busy outsideworld; but this morning, my attention having been drawn to the subject,I amused myself, as I paced to and fro, by watching the eager faces ofthe little throng of idlers. Presently I fell in with the rest, andfound myself conning the placard on the tree.

  The name that met my astonished eyes on that placard was the name ofHortense Dufresnoy.

  The sentence ran thus:--

  "Grand Biennial Prize for Poetry--Subject: _The Pass ofThermopylae_,--Successful Candidate, _Mademoiselle Hortense Dufresnoy_."

  Breathless, I read the passage twice; then, hearing at a little distancethe shrill voice of the importunate newsvender, I plunged after him andstopped him, just as he came to the--

  "Frightful murder in the Rue du Faubourg Saint ..."

  "Here," said I, tapping him on the shoulder; "give me one of yourpapers."

  The man's eyes glittered.

  "Only forty centimes, M'sieur," said he. "'Tis the first I've soldto-day."

  He looked poor and wretched. I dropped into his hand a coin that wouldhave purchased all his little sheaf of journals, and hurried away, notto take the change or hear his thanks. He was silent for some moments;then took up his cry at the point where he had broken off, and startedaway with:--

  --"Antoine!--state of the Bourse--latest despatches from the seat ofwar--news of the day--only forty centimes!"

  I took my paper to a quiet bench near the fountain, and read the wholeaccount. There had been eighteen anonymous poems submitted to theAcademy. Three out of the eighteen had come under discussion; one out ofthe three had been warmly advocated by Beranger, one by Lebrun, and thethird by some other academician. The poem selected by Beranger was atlength chosen; the sealed enclosure opened; and the name of thesuccessful competitor found to be Hortense Dufresnoy. To HortenseDufresnoy, therefore, the prize and crown were awarded.

  I read the article through, and then went home, hoping to be the firstto congratulate her. Timidly, and with a fast-beating heart, I rang thebell at her outer door; for we all had our bells at Madame Bouisse's,and lived in our rooms as if they were little private houses.

  She opened the door, and, seeing me, looked surprised; for I had neverbefore ventured to pay her a visit in her apartment.

  "I have come to wish you joy," said I, not venturing to cross thethreshold.

  "To wish me joy?"

  "You have not seen a morning paper?"

  "A morning paper!"

  And, echoing me thus, her color changed, and a strange vague look--itmight be of hope, it might be of fear--came into her face.

  "There is something in the _Moniteur_" I went on, smiling, 'thatconcerns you nearly."

  "That concerns me?" she exclaimed. "_Me_? For Heaven's sake, speakplainly. I do not understand you. Has--has anything been discovered?"

  "Yes--it has been discovered at the Academie Francaise that MademoiselleHortense Dufresnoy has written the best poem on Thermopylae."

  She drew a deep breath, pressed her hands tightly together, andmurmured:--

  "Alas! is that all?"

  "All! Nay--is it not enough to step at once into fame--to have beenadvocated by Beranger--to have the poem crowned in the Theatre of theAcademie Francaise?"

  She stood silent, with drooping head and listless hands, alldisappointment and despondency. Presently she looked up.

  "Where did you learn this?" she asked.

  I handed her the journal.

  "Come in, fellow-student," said she, and held the door wide for me toenter.

  For the second time I found myself in her little _salon_, and foundeverything in the self-same order.

  "Well," I said, "are you not happy?"

  She shook her head.

  "Success is not happiness," she replied, smiling mournfully. "ThatBeranger should have advocated my poem is an honor beyond price;but--but I need more than this to make me happy."

  And her eyes wandered, with a strange, yearning look, to the sword overthe chimney-piece.

  Seeing that look, my heart sank, and the tears sprang unbidden to myeyes. Whose was the sword? For whose sake was her life so lonely andsecluded? For whom was she waiting? Surely here, if one could but readit aright, lay the secret of her strange and sudden journeys--here Itouched unawares upon the mystery of her life!

  I did not speak. I shaded my face with my hand, and sat looking on theground. Then, the silence remaining unbroken, I rose, and examined thedrawings on the walls.

  They were water-colors for the most part, and treated in a masterly butquite peculiar style. The skies were sombre, the foregrounds singularlyelaborate, the color stern and forcible. Angry sunsets barred by linesof purple cirrus stratus; sweeps of desolate heath bounded by jaggedpeaks; steep mountain passes crimson with faded ferns and half-obscuredby rain-clouds; strange studies of weeds, and rivers, and lonely reachesof desolate sea-shore ... these were some of the subjects, and all wereevidently by the same hand.

  "Ah," said Hortense, "you are criticizing my sketches!"

  "Your sketches!" I exclaimed. "Are these your work?"

  "Certainly," she
replied, smiling. "Why not? What do you think of them?"

  "What do I think of them! Well, I think that if you had not been a poetyou ought to have been a painter. How fortunate you are in being able toexpress yourself so variously! Are these compositions, or studiesfrom Nature?"

  "All studies from Nature--mere records of fact. I do not presume tocreate--I am content humbly and from a distance to copy the changingmoods of Nature."

  "Pray be your own catalogue, then, and tell me where these places are."

  "Willingly. This coast-line with the run of breaking surf was taken onthe shores of Normandy, some few miles from Dieppe. This sunset is arecollection of a glorious evening near Frankfort, and those purplemountains in the distance are part of the Taunus range. Here is an oldmediaeval gateway at Solothurn, in Switzerland. This wild heath near thesea is in the neighborhood of Biscay. This quaint knot of ruinous housesin a weed-grown Court was sketched at Bruges. Do you see that milk-girlwith her scarlet petticoat and Flemish _faille?_ She supplied us withmilk, and her dairy was up that dark archway. She stood for me severaltimes, when I wanted a foreground figure."

  "You have travelled a great deal," I said. "Were you long in Belgium?"

  "Yes; I lived there for some years. I was first pupil, then teacher, ina large school in Brussels. I was afterwards governess in a privatefamily in Bruges. Of late, however, I have preferred to live in Paris,and give morning lessons. I have more liberty thus, and more leisure."

  "And these two little quaint bronze figures?"

  "Hans Sachs and Peter Vischer. I brought them from Nuremberg. HansSachs, you see, wears a furred robe, and presses a book to his breast.He does not look in the least like a cobbler. Peter Vischer, on thecontrary, wears his leather apron and carries his mallet in his hand.Artist and iron-smith, he glories in his trade, and looks as sturdy alittle burgher as one would wish to see."

  "And this statuette in green marble?"

  "A copy of the celebrated 'Pensiero' of Michel Angelo--in other words,the famous sitting statue of Lorenzo de Medici, in the Medicean chapelin Florence. I had it executed for me on the spot by Bazzanti."

  "A noble figure!"

  "Indeed it is--a noble figure, instinct with life, and strength, andmeditation. My first thought on seeing the original was that I would notfor worlds be condemned to pass a night alone with it. I should everymoment expect the musing hand to drop away from the stern mouth, and theeyes to turn upon me!"

  "These," said I, pausing at the chimney-piece, "are _souvenirs_ ofSwitzerland. How delicately those chamois are carved out of the hardwood! They almost seem to snuff the mountain air! But here is a rapierwith a hilt of ornamented steel--where did this come from?"

  I had purposely led up the conversation to this point. I had patientlyquestioned and examined for the sake of this one inquiry, and I waitedher reply as if my life hung on it.

  Her whole countenance changed. She took it down, and her eyes filledwith tears.

  "It was my father's," she said, tenderly.

  "Your father's!" I exclaimed, joyfully. "Heaven be thanked! Did you sayyour father's?"

  She looked up surprised, then smiled, and faintly blushed.

  "I did," she replied.

  "And was your father a soldier?" I asked; for the sword looked more likea sword of ceremony than a sword for service.

  But to this question she gave no direct reply.

  "It was his sword," she said, "and he had the best of all rights to wearit."

  With this she kissed the weapon reverently, and restored it to itsplace.

  I kissed her hand quite as reverently that day at parting, and she didnot withdraw it.

  CHAPTER XLVII.

  ALL ABOUT ART.

  Art's a service.

  AURORA LEIGH.

  "God sent art, and the devil sent critics," said Mueller, dismallyparaphrasing a popular proverb. "My picture is rejected!"

  "Rejected!" I echoed, surprised to find him sitting on the floor, like atailor, in front of an acre of canvas. "By whom?"

  "By the Hanging Committee."

  "Hang the Hanging Committee!"

  "A pious prayer, my friend. Would that it could be carried intoexecution!"

  "What cause do they assign?"

  "Cause! Do you suppose they trouble themselves to find one? Not a bit ofit. They simply scrawl a great R in chalk on the back of it, and sendyou a printed notice to carry it home again. What is it to them, if apoor devil has been painting his very heart and hopes out, day afterday, for a whole year, upon that piece of canvas? Nothing, and less thannothing--confound them!"

  I drew a chair before the picture, and set myself to a patient study ofthe details. He had chosen a difficult subject--the death of Louis XI.The scene represented a spacious chamber in the Castle ofPlessisles-Tours. To the left, in a great oak chair beside the bed fromwhich he had just risen, sat the dying king, with a rich, furred mantleloosely thrown around him. At his feet, his face buried in his hands,kneeled the Dauphin. Behind his chair, holding up the crucifix to enjoinsilence, stood the king's confessor. A physician, a couple ofcouncillors in scarlet robes, and a captain of archers, stood somewhatback, whispering together and watching the countenance of the dying man;while through the outer door was seen a crowd of courtiers and pages,waiting to congratulate King Charles VIII. It was an ambitious subject,and Mueller had conceived it in a grand spirit. The heads wereexpressive; and the textures of the velvets, tapestries, oak carvings,and so forth, had been executed with more than ordinary finish andfidelity. For all this, however, there was more of promise than ofachievement in the work. The lights were scattered; the attitudes werestiff; there was too evident an attempt at effect. One could see that itwas the work of a young painter, who had yet much to learn, andsomething of the Academy to forget.

  "Well," said Mueller, still sitting ruefully on the floor, "what do youthink of it? Am I rightly served? Shall I send for a big pail ofwhitewash, and blot it all out?"

  "Not for the world!"

  "What shall I do, then?"

  "Do better."

  "But, if I have done my best already?"

  "Still do better; and when you have done that, do better again. Sogenius toils higher and ever higher, and like the climber of theglacier, plants his foot where only his hand clung the moment before."

  "Humph! but what of my picture?"

  "Well," I said, hesitatingly, "I am no critic--"

  "Thank Heaven!" muttered Mueller, parenthetically.

  "But there is something noble in the disposition of the figures. Ishould say, however, that you had set to work upon too large a scale."

  "A question of focus," said the painter, hastily. "A mere question offocus."

  "How can that be, when you have finished some parts laboriously, and inothers seem scarcely to have troubled yourself to cover the canvas?"

  "I don't know. I'm impatient, you see, and--and I think I got tired ofit towards the last."

  "Would that have been the case if you had allowed yourself but half thespace?"

  "I'll take to enamel," exclaimed Mueller, with a grin of hyperbolicaldespair. "I'll immortalize myself in miniature. I'll paint henceforwardwith the aid of a microscope, and never again look at nature unlessthrough the wrong end of a telescope!"

  "Pshaw!--be in earnest, man, and talk sensibly! Do you conceive that forevery failure you are to change your style? Give yourself, heart andsoul, to the school in which you have begun, and make up your mindto succeed."

  "Do you believe, then, that a man may succeed by force of will alone?"said Mueller, musingly.

  "Yes, because force of will proceeds from force of character, and thetwo together, warp and woof, make the stuff out of which Nature clothesher heroes."

  "Oh, but I am not talking of heroes," said Mueller.

  "By heroes, I do not mean only soldiers. Captain Pen is as good a heroas Captain Sword, any day; and Captain Brush, to my thinking, is as finea fellow as either."

  "Ay; but do they come, as you w
ould seem to imply, of the same stock?"said Mueller. "Force of will and force of character are famous clays inwhich to mould a Wellington or a Columbus; but is not something more--atall events, something different--necessary to the modelling of aRaffaelle?"

  "I don't fancy so. Power is the first requisite of genius. Give power inequal quantity to your Columbus and your Raffaelle, and circumstanceshall decide which will achieve the New World, and which theTransfiguration."

  "Circumstance!" cried the painter, impatiently. "Good heavens! do youmake no account of the spontaneous tendencies of genius? Is Nature amere vulgar cook, turning out men, like soups, from one common stock,with only a dash of flavoring here and there to give them variety?No--Nature is a subtle chemist, and her workshop, depend on it, isstored with delicate elixirs, volatile spirits, and precious fires ofgenius. Certain of these are kneaded with the clay of the poet, otherswith the clay of the painter, the astronomer, the mathematician, thelegislator, the soldier. Raffaelle had in him some of 'the stuff thatdreams are made of.' Never tell me that that same stuff, differentlytreated, would equally well have furnished forth an Archimedes or aNapoleon!"

  "Men are what their age calls upon them to be," I replied, after amoment's consideration. "Be that demand what it may, the supply is everequal to it. Centre of the most pompous and fascinating of religions,Rome demanded Madonnas and Transfigurations, and straightway Raffaelleanswered to the call. The Old World, overstocked with men, gold, andaristocracies, asked wider fields of enterprise, and Columbus addedAmerica to the map. What is this but circumstance? Had Italy neededcolonies, would not her men of genius have turned sailors anddiscoverers? Had Madrid been the residence of the Popes, might notColumbus have painted altar-pieces or designed churches?"

  Mueller, still sitting on the floor, shook his head despondingly.

  "I don't think it," he replied; "and I don't wish to think it. It is toomaterial a view of genius to satisfy my imagination. I love to believethat gifts are special. I love to believe that the poet is born a poet,and the artist an artist."

  "Hold! I believe that the poet is born a poet, and the artist an artist;but I also believe the poetry of the one and the art of the other to beonly diverse manifestations of a power that is universal in itsapplication. The artist whose lot in life it is to be a builder is nonethe less an artist. The poet, though engineer or soldier, is none theless a poet. There is the poetry of language, and there is also thepoetry of action. So also there is the art which expresses itself bymeans of marble or canvas, and the art which designs a capitol, tapers aspire, or plants a pleasure-ground. Nay, is not this very interfusion ofgifts, this universality of uses, in itself the bond of beauty whichgirdles the world like a cestus? If poetry were only rhyme, and art onlypainting, to what an outer darkness of matter-of-fact should we becondemning nine-tenths of the creation!"

  Mueller yawned, as if he would have swallowed me and my argumenttogether.

  "You are getting transcendental," said he. "I dare say your theories areall very fine and all very true; but I confess that I don't understandthem. I never could find out all this poetry of bricks and mortar,railroads and cotton-factories, that people talk about so fluentlynow-a-days. We Germans take the dreamy side of life, and are seldom athome in the practical, be it ever so highly colored and highly flavored.In our parlance, an artist is an artist, and neither a bagman nor anengine-driver."

  His professional pride was touched, and he said this with somewhat lessthan his usual _bonhomie_--almost with a shade of irritability.

  "Come," said I, smiling, "we will not discuss a topic which we can neversee from the same point of view. Doing art is better than talking art;and your business now is to find a fresh subject and prepare anothercanvas. Meanwhile cheer up, and forget all about Louis XI. and theHanging Committee. What say you to dining with me at the Trois Freres?It will do you good."

  "Good!" cried he, springing to his feet and shaking his fist at thepicture. "More good, by Jupiter, than all the paint and megilp that everwas wasted! Not all the fine arts of Europe are worth a _poulet a laMarengo_ and a bottle of old _Romanee_!"

  So saying, he turned his picture to the wall, seized his cap, locked hisdoor, scrawled outside with a piece of chalk,--"_Summoned to theTuileries on state affairs_," and followed me, whistling, down the sixflights of gloomy, ricketty, Quartier-Latin lodging-house stairs upwhich he lived and had his being.

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