Max

by Katherine Cecil Thurston

  CHAPTER XIV

  The meal was over; the candles had burned low; in the quiet, warm roomthe sense of repose was dominant.

  Blake took out his cigarette-case and passed it across the table,watching Max with lazy interest as he chose a cigarette and lighted itat a candle-flame.

  "Happy?"

  "Absolutely!"

  He had wanted in a vague, subconscious way to see the flash of the whiteteeth, the quick, familiar lifting of the boy's glance, and now hesmiled as a man secretly satisfied.

  "I know just exactly what you're feeling," he said, as Max threw himselfback in his chair and inhaled a first deep breath of smoke. "You feelthat that little white curl from the end of your cigarette is the lastpuff of smoke from the boats you have burned; and that, with your ownfour walls around you, you can snap your fingers at the world. I know!God, don't I know!"

  Max smiled slowly, watching the tip of his cigarette. "Yes, you know!That is the beautiful thing about you."

  The appreciation warmed Blake's soul as the good red wine had warmed hisblood.

  "I believe I do--with you. I believe I could tell you precisely yourthoughts at this present moment." With a pleasant, meditative action, hedrew a cigar from his case.

  "Tell me!"

  "Well, first of all, there's the great contentment--the sense of adefinite step. You're strong enough to like finality."

  "I hope I am. I think I am."

  "You are! Not a doubt of it! But what I mean is that you've left an oldworld for a new one; and no matter how exciting the voyaging throughspace may have been, you like to feel your feet on terra firma."

  Max leaned forward eagerly. "That is quite true! And I like it becausenow I can open my eyes, and say to myself, 'not to-morrow, but to-day Ilive.' I have put--how do you say in English?--my hand upon the plough."

  "Exactly! The plough--or the palette--it's all the same! You're set toit now."

  The boy's eyes flashed in the candle-light, and for an instant somethingof the fierce emotion that can lash the Russian calm, as a gale lashesthe sea, troubled his young face.

  "You comprehend--absolutely! I have made my choice; I have come to itout of many situations. I would die now rather than I would fail."

  In his voice was a suppressed fervor akin to some harsh or cruelemotion; and to Blake, watching and listening, there floated the hotecho of stories in which Russians had acted strange parts with aresolve, a callousness incomprehensible to other races.

  "When you talk like that, boy, I could almost go back to that firstnight, and adopt McCutcheon's theory. You might feasibly be arevolutionary with those blazing eyes."

  Max laughed, coming back to the moment.

  "Only revolutionary in my own cause! I fight myself for myself. You takemy meaning?"

  "Not in the very least! But I accept your statement; I like its bravering. You are your own romance."

  "I am my own romance."

  "Let's drink to it, then! Your romance--whatever it may be!" He raisedthe half-empty tumbler, drank a little, and handed it across the table.

  Max laughed and drank as well. "My romance--whatever it may be!"

  "Whatever it may be! And now for that breath of air we promisedourselves! It's close on ten o'clock."

  So the meal ended; coats were found, candles blown out, and a lastproprietary inspection of the _appartement_ made by the aid of matches.

  They ran down the long, smooth staircase, and, stepping into the quiet,starlit rue Mueller, linked arms and began their descent upon Paris withas much ease, as nice a familiarity as though life for both of them hadbeen passed in the shadow of the Sacre-Coeur.

  On the Boulevard de Clichy the usual confusion of lights and humanitygreeted them like welcoming arms, and with the same agreeablenonchalance they yielded to the embrace.

  Conscious of no definite purpose, they turned to the right and began tobreast the human tide with eyes carelessly critical of the throngingfaces, ears heedlessly open to the many tangled sounds of street life.Outside the theatres, flaunting posters made pools of color; in theroadway, the network of traffic surged and intermingled; from amid theflat house fronts, at every few hundred yards, some _cabaret_ broke uponthe sight in crude confusion of scenic painting and electric light;while dominating all--a monument to the power of tradition--the sails ofthe time-honored mill sprang red and glaring from a background of quietsky.

  But the two, walking arm-in-arm, had no glance for revolving mill-sailsor vivid advertisement, and presently Blake halted before a house that,but for a certain prosperity of stained-glass window and dark-greenpaint, would have seemed a common wine shop.

  "Max," he said, "do you remember the famous night when we went to theBal Tabarin, and saw much wine spilled? It was here I was first going tobring you then."

  "Here?"

  "This very place! 'Tis one of the old artistic _cabarets_ ofParis--grown a bit too big for its shoes now, like the rest ofMontmartre, but still retaining a flavor. What do you say to turningin?"

  "I say 'yes.'"

  "Come along, then! I hope 'twon't disappoint you! There's a good deal ofrubbish here, but a scattering of grain among the chaff. Ah, messieurs!Good-evening!"

  This last was addressed with cordiality to a knot of men gathered insidethe doorway of the _cabaret_, all of whom rose politely from theirchairs at Blake's entry.

  Max, peering curiously through the tobacco smoke that veiled the place,received an impression of a room--rather, of a shop--possessed oftables, chairs, a small circular counter where glasses and bottleswinked and gleamed, and of walls hung with a truly Parisian collectionof impressionist studies and clever caricatures.

  "Monsieur is interested?"

  He turned, to meet the eyes of the host, a stout and affable Frenchman,who by right divine held first place among the little group of loungers;but before he could frame a reply, Blake answered for him.

  "He is an artist, M. Fruvier, and finds all life interesting."

  M. Fruvier bowed with much subtle comprehension.

  "Then possibly it will intrigue him to step inside, and hear our littleconcert. We are about to commence."

  Blake nodded in silent acquiescence; the knot of men bowed quickly andstiffly; and Max found himself being led across the bare, sawdust-strewnfloor into an inner and larger room--a holy of holies--where the lightwas dimmer and the air more cool.

  Here, a scattered audience was assembled--a score or so of individuals,sober of dress, unenthusiastic of demeanor, sitting in twos and threes,sipping beer or liqueurs and waiting for the concert to begin.

  Max's eyes wandered over this collection of people while Blake soughtfor seats, but his glance and his interest passed on almost immediatelyto the walls, where, as in the outer room, pictures ranged from floor toceiling.

  The seats were chosen; a white-aproned waiter claimed an order, andBlake gave one as if from habit.

  "And now, boy, a cigarette?"

  "If you please--a cigarette!" Max's voice had the quick note, his eyesthe swift light that spoke excitement. "_Mon ami_, I like this place! Ilike it! And I wonder who painted that?" He indicated a picture thathung upon the wall beside them.

  "I don't know! Some chap who used to frequent the place in his unknowndays. We can ask Fruvier."

  "It is clever."

  "It is."

  "It has imagination."

  They both looked at the picture--a study in black and white, showing anattic room, with a _pierrette_ seated disconsolate upon a bed, a_pierrot_ gazing through a window.

  "_Pierrot_ seeking the moon, eh?"

  Max nodded.

  "Yes. It has imagination--and also technique!"

  But their criticism was interrupted; a piano was opened at the fartherend of the room by an individual affecting the unkempt hair andvelveteen coat of past Bohemianism, who seated himself and ran hisfingers over the keys as though he alone occupied the room.

  At this very informal signal, the curtain rose upon a ridiculously smallstage, and an in
significant, nervous-looking man stepped toward thefootlights at the same moment that M. Fruvier and his followers enteredand seated themselves in a row, their backs to the wall.

  This appearance of the proprietor was the sole meed of interest offeredto the singer, the audience continuing to smoke, to sip, even to perusethe evening papers with stoic indifference.

  The song began--a long and unamusing ditty, topical in its points. Hereand there a smile showed that it did not pass unheard, and as the singerdisappeared a faint _roulade_ of applause came from the back of theroom.

  Max turned to his companion.

  "But I believed the Parisians to be all excitement! What an audience!Like the dead!"

  "They are excitable when something excites them."

  "Then they dislike this song?"

  "Oh no! 'Not bad!' they'd say if you asked them; but they're not here tobe excited--they're not here to waste enthusiasm. Like ourselves, theyhave worked and have eaten, and are enjoying an hour's repose. The songis part of the hour--as inevitable as the _bock_ and the cigar, and youcan't expect a smoker to wax eloquent over a familiar weed."

  "How strange! How interesting!" The boy looked round the scatteredgroups that formed to his young eyes another side-show in the vasttheatre of life.

  No one heeded his interest. The women, young and elderly alike,conversed with their escorts and sipped their liqueurs with absorbedquiet; the men smoked and drank, talked or read aloud little paragraphsfrom their papers with whispering relish.

  Then again the piano tinkled, and the same singer appeared, to singanother song almost identical with the first; but now his nervousnesswas less, he won a laugh or two for his political innuendoes, and whenhe finished Max clapped his hands, and Blake laughingly followed suit.

  "He's a new man," he said; "this is probably his first night."

  "His first? Oh, poor creature! What a _debut_! Clap your hands again!"

  "Poor creature indeed! He's delighted with himself. Many a better manhas been driven from the stage after his first verse. Your Paris can becruel."

  Their example had been tepidly followed, and the singer, beaming underthe relaxed tension of his nerves, was smiling and bowing beforeentering upon the perils of a third song.

  "And what do they pay him?"

  "Oh, a couple of francs a song! The fees will grow with his success."

  Max gasped. "A couple of francs! Oh, my God!"

  "What do you expect? We're not in Eldorado."

  "But a couple of francs!"

  "Ssh! Don't talk anarchy. Here come the powers that be!"

  M. Fruvier was coming toward them, making his way between the seats withmany bows, many apologetic smiles.

  "Well, messieurs, and what of our new one? Not a Vagot,perhaps"--mentioning a famous _comique_ whose star had risen in thefirmament of the _cabaret_--"not a Vagot, perhaps, but not bad! Notbad?"

  "Not bad!" acquiesced Blake.

  "Very good!" added Max, pondering hotly upon the wage of the singer,and regarding M. Fruvier with doubtful glance.

  "No! No! Not bad!" reiterated that gentleman, as if viewing theperformance from a wholly impersonal standpoint. "Not bad!" And, stillbowing, still smiling, he wandered on to exchange opinions with hisother patrons, while a new singer appeared, a man whose vast proportionsand round red face looked truly absurd upon the tiny stage, but whosemerry eye and instant friendly nod gained him a murmur of welcome.

  With the appearance of the new-comer a little stir of life was felt, andin obedience to some impulse of his own, Max took a sketch-book and apencil from his pocket, and sat forward in his seat, with glance rovinground and round the room, pencil poised above the paper.

  "I heard this fellow here twelve years ago," said Blake. "He and Vagotwere young men then. Shows the odd lie of things in this world! There'sVagot making his thousands of francs a week next door at the MoulinRouge, and this poor fat clown still where he was!"

  Max did not reply. His head was bent, his face flushed; he was sketchingwith a furious haste.

  "What are you doing?"

  Still no reply. The song rolled on; and Blake, leaning back in his seat,smoking with leisurely enjoyment, felt for perhaps the first time in hislife the sense of complete companionship--that subtle condition of mindso continuously craved, so rarely found, so instantly recognized.

  "Boy," he said at last, "let me come up sometimes when you're messingwith your paints? I won't bother you."

  Max looked up and nodded--a mere flash of a look, but one that conveyedsufficient; and the two relapsed again into silence.

  At the end of an hour the boy raised his head, tossed a lock of hair outof his eyes, and closed his sketch-book.

  Blake met his eyes comprehendingly. "Will we go?"

  "Yes. But one more glance at this black-and-white!"

  He jumped up, unembarrassed, unconscious of self, and looked at thepicture closely; then stepped back and looked at it from a littledistance, eyes half closed, head critically upon one side.

  "Satisfied?" Blake rose more slowly.

  "Perfectly. It is clever--this! It has imagination!" He slipped his armconfidingly through Blake's, and together they made a way to the door.

  A new song began as they stepped into the outer room--the tinkle of thepiano came thinly across the smoke-laden air. Blake paused and lookedback.

  "Well, and what do you think of it? A trifle dull, perhaps, but still--"

  "Dull? But no! Never! I could work here. Others have worked here. It isin the atmosphere--- the desire to create."

  They passed into the street, Blake raising his hat to a stout lady,presumably Madame Fruvier, who sat wedged behind the counter, Maxglancing greedily at the bold rough sketches, the brilliantly Parisiancaricatures adorning the walls.

  "It is in the atmosphere! One breathes it!" he said again, as theywalked down the cool, lighted boulevard. "I feel it to-night as I havenot felt it before--the artist's Paris. _Mon ami_"--he raised a glowingface--"_mon ami_, tell me something! Do you think I shall succeed? Doyou think I possess a spark of the great fire--a spark ever so tiny?"

  His earnestness was almost comical. He stopped and arraigned hiscompanion, regardless of interested glances and passing smiles.

  "Ned, tell me! Tell me! Have you faith in me?"

  Blake looked into the feverishly bright eyes, and a swift convictionpossessed him.

  "I know this, boy, whatever you do, you'll do it finely! More I cannotsay."

  Max fell silent, and they proceeded on their way, each preoccupied withhis own thoughts. At the turning to the heights Blake paused.

  "I'll say good-bye here! I have letters to write to-night; but I'll beup to-morrow to spirit you off to lunch. I won't come too early, for Iknow what you'll be doing all the morning."

  Max laughed, coming back out of his dream. "And what is it I shall bedoing all the morning?"

  "Why, carting canvases and paint tubes, and God knows what, up thosesteps till your back is broken, and then settling down with your temperand your ambition at fever heat to begin the great picture at the mostinopportune moment in the world! Think I don't know you?"

  Max laughed again, but more softly.

  "_Mon ami!_"

  "I'm right, eh? That sketch at the _cabaret_ is meant to grow?"

  Instantly Max was diffident. "Oh, I am not so sure! It is only an idea.It may not arrive at anything."

  "Let's have a look?"

  Max's hand went slowly toward his pocket. "I am not sure that I like it;it is not my theory of life. It's more of your theory--it is ironical."

  "Let's see!"

  The sketch-book came reluctantly to light, and as Max opened it, the twostepped close to a street lamp.

  "As I tell you, it is ironical. If it becomes a picture I shall give itthis name--_The Failure_." He handed it to Blake, leaning close andpeering over his shoulder in nervous anxiety.

  "Understand, it is but an idea! I have put no work into it."

  Blake held the book up to the light,
his observant face grave andinterested.

  "What a clever little beggar you are!" he said at length.

  Max glowed at the words, and instantly his tongue was loosed.

  "Ah, _mon cher_, but it is only a sketch! That atmosphere--that dim,smoky atmosphere--is so difficult with the pencil. The audience is, ofcourse, but suggested; all that I really attempted was the singer--thefailure with the merry eyes."

  "And well you've caught him too, by gad! One would think you had seenthe antithesis--Vagot, the success, long and lean and yellow, theunhappiest-looking man you ever saw."

  "Ah, but you must not say that!" cried Max unexpectedly. "I told you itwas not my theory. To me success is life, failure is death! This is buta reflected impression of yours--- an impression of irony!" He took thesketch-book from Blake's hands and closed it sharply; then, to askpardon for his little outburst, he smiled.

  "_Mon cher_! Forgive me! Come to-morrow, and we will see if day hasthrown new light."

  They shook hands.

  "All right--to-morrow! Good-night, boy--and good luck!"

  "Good-night!"

  Max stood to watch the tall figure disappear into the tangle of traffic,then with a light step, a light heart, a light sense of propitiatedfate, he began the climb to his home.