A year later Cuthbert Hartington was
sitting in a room, somewhat better furnished than
the majority of the students’ lodgings, on the
second floor of a house in Quartier Latin.
The occupant of the room below, Arnold Dampierre,
was with him. He was a man three or four years
Cuthbert’s junior, handsome, grave-eyed, and
slightly built; he was a native of Louisiana, and
his dark complexion showed a taint of Mulatto blood
in his veins.
“So you have made up your mind to stay,”
he said.
“Certainly, I intend to see
it through; in the first place I don’t want
to break off my work, and as you know am ambitious
enough to intend to get a couple of pictures finished
in time for the Salon, although whether they will
hang there, is another matter altogether.”
“Don’t pretend to be modest,
Cuthbert. You know well enough they will be hung,
and more than that, they will be a success. I
would wager a hundred dollars to a cent on it, though
you haven’t as yet settled on the subjects.
You know that you are Goude’s favorite pupil
and that he predicts great things for you, and there
is not one of us who does not agree with him.
You know what Goude said of the last thing you did.
’Gentlemen, I should be proud to be able to sign
my name in the corner of this picture, it is admirable.’”
“It was but a little thing,”
Cuthbert said, carelessly, but nevertheless coloring
slightly, “I hope to do much better work in the
course of another year.” Then he went back
to the former subject of conversation.
“Yes, I shall see it through.
We have had a good many excitements already-the
march away of the troops, and the wild enthusiasm and
the shouts of ‘A Berlin!’ I don’t
think there was a soul in the crowd who was not convinced
that the Germans were going to be crumpled up like
a sheet of paper. It was disgusting to hear the
bragging in the studio, and they were almost furious
with me when I ventured to hint mildly that the Prussians
were not fools, and would not have chosen this time
to force France into a war if they had not felt that
they were much better prepared for it than Napoleon
was. Since then it has been just as exciting
the other way-the stupor of astonishment,
the disappointment and rage as news of each disaster
came in; then that awful business at Sedan, the uprising
of the scum here, the flight of the Empress, the proclamation
of the Republic, and the idiotic idea that seized the
Parisians that the Republic was a sort of fetish, and
that the mere fact of its establishment would arrest
the march of the Germans. Well, now we are going
to have a siege, I suppose, and as I have never seen
one, it will be interesting. Of course I have
no shadow of faith in the chattering newspaper men
and lawyers, who have undertaken the government of
France; but they say Trochu is a good soldier, and
Paris ought to be able to hold out for some time.
The mobiles are pouring in, and I think they will
fight well, especially the Bretons. Their
officers are gentlemen, and though I am sure they
would not draw a sword for the Republic, they will
fight sturdily for France. I would not miss it
for anything. I am not sure that I shan’t
join one of the volunteer battalions myself.”
“You have nothing to do with
the quarrel,” his companion said.
“No, I have nothing to do with
the quarrel; but if I were walking along the streets
and saw a big lout pick a quarrel with a weaker one
and then proceed to smash him up altogether, I fancy
I should take a hand in the business. The Germans
deliberately forced on the war. They knew perfectly
well that when they put up a German Prince as candidate
for the throne of Spain it would bring on a war with
France. Why, we ourselves were within an ace
of going to war with France when Guizot brought about
the Spanish marriage, although it was comparatively
of slight importance to us that Spain and France should
be united. But to the French this thing was an
absolutely vital question, for with Germany and Spain
united their very existence would be threatened, and
they had nothing for it but to fight, as Germany knew
they would have to do.”
“But the candidature was withdrawn, Hartington.”
“Withdrawn! ay, after the damage
was done and France in a flame of indignation.
If a man meets me in the street and pulls me by the
nose, do you think that if he takes off his hat and
bows and says that he withdraws the insult I am going
to keep my hands in my pockets? Twice already
has France been humiliated and has stood it? Once
when Prussia made that secret treaty with Bavaria
and Baden, and threw it scornfully in her face; the
second time over that Luxembourg affair. Does
Germany think that a great nation, jealous of its
honor and full of fiery elements, is going to stand
being kicked as often as she chooses to kick her?
You may say that France was wrong in going to war when
she was really unprepared, and I grant she was unwise,
but when a man keeps on insulting you, you don’t
say to yourself I must go and take lessons in boxing
before I fight him. You would hit out straight
even if he were twice as big as yourself. That
is what I feel about it, Dampierre, and feeling so
I fancy that when the thing begins here I shall get
too hot over it to help joining in. Ah, here
come some of the lads.”
There was a clatter of feet on the
staircase, and a moment later half a dozen young Frenchmen
ran in in a state of wild excitement.
“They have entered Versailles,
a party of their horsemen have been seen from Valerian,
and a shot has been fired at them. They have fled.”
“Well, I should think they naturally
would,” Cuthbert said. “A handful
of horsemen are not likely to remain to be made targets
of by the guns of Valerian.”
“It is the beginning of the
end,” one of the students exclaimed. “Paris
will assert herself, France will come to her assistance,
and the Germans will find that it is one thing to
fight against the armies of a despot, and another
to stand before a free people in arms.”
“I hope so, Rene, but I own
I have considerable doubts of it. A man when
he begins to fight, fights because he is there and
has got to do it. If he does not kill the enemy
he will be killed; if he does not thrash the enemy
he will be thrashed; and for the time being the question
whether it is by a despot or by a Provisional Government
that he is ruled does not matter to him one single
jot. As to the Parisians, we shall see. I
sincerely hope, they will do all that you expect of
them, but in point of fact I would rather have a battalion
of trained soldiers than a brigade of untrained peasants
or citizens, however full of ardor they may be.”
“Ah, you English, it is always discipline, discipline.”
“You are quite right, Rene,
that is when it comes to fighting in the open; fighting
in the streets of a town is a very different thing.
Then I grant individual pluck will do wonders.
Look at Saragosa, look at Lucknow. Civilians
in both cases fought as well as the best trained soldiers
could do, but in the field discipline is everything.
Putting aside the great battles where your feudal
lords, with their brave but undisciplined followers,
met our disciplined bow and billmen, look at the Jacquerie,
the peasants were brave enough, and were animated by
hate and despair, but they were scattered like chaff
by mere handfuls of knights and men-at-arms.
The Swiss have defended their mountains against the
armies of despots, because they had mountains to defend,
and were accustomed to scaling the rocks, and all
good shots, just as the people of a town might hold
their streets. I believe that you will hold Paris.
I doubt whether the Germans will ever be able to enter
your walls, but famine will enter, and, defend yourselves
as obstinately as you may, the time must come when
food will give out.”
“As if we should wait to be
starved,” another of the students said scoffingly.
“If the time comes when there’s nothing
to eat, we would set Paris on fire and hurl ourselves
every man upon the Germans, and fight our way through.
Do you think that they could block every road round
Paris?”
“I know nothing about military
affairs, Leroux, and therefore don’t suppose
anything one way or the other. I believe the Parisians
will make a gallant defence, and they have my heartiest
good wishes and sympathy, and when all you men join
the ranks my intention is to go with you. But
as to the end, my belief is that it will be decided
not by Paris but by France.”
“Bravo, bravo, Cuthbert,”
the others exclaimed, “that shows, indeed, that
you love France. Rene said he thought you would
shoulder a musket with us, but we said Englishmen
only fought either for duty or interest, and we did
not see why you should mix yourself up in it.”
“Then you are altogether wrong.
If you said Englishmen don’t fight for what
you call glory, you would be right, but you can take
my word for it that in spite of what peace-at-any-price
people may say, there are no people in the world who
are more ready to fight when they think they are right,
than Englishmen. We find it hard enough to get
recruits in time of peace, but in time of war we can
get any number we want. The regiments chosen
to go to the front are delighted, those who have to
stay behind are furious. Glory has nothing to
do with it. It is just the love of fighting.
I don’t say that I am thinking of joining one
of your volunteer battalions because I want to fight.
I do so because I think you are in the right, and
that this war has been forced upon you by the Germans,
who are likely to inflict horrible sufferings on the
city.”
“Never mind why you are going
to fight,” Leroux said, “you are going
to fight for us, and that is enough. You are
a good comrade. And your friend, here, what is
he going to do?”
“I shall join also,” Dampierre
said. “You are a Republic now, like our
own, and of course my sympathies are wholly with you.”
“Vive la République!
Vive l’Americain!” the students shouted.
Cuthbert Hartington shrugged his shoulders.
“We were just starting for a
stroll to the walls to see how they are getting on
with the work of demolition. Are any of you disposed
to go with us?”
They were all disposed, being in so
great a state of excitement that anything was better
than staying indoors quietly. The streets were
full of people, carts were rumbling along, some filled
with provisions, others with the furniture and effects
of the houses now being pulled down outside the enciente,
or from the villas and residences at Sèvres Meudon
and other suburbs and villages outside the line of
defence.
Sometimes they came upon battalions
of newly-arrived mobiles, who were loudly cheered
by the populace as they marched along; sturdy sunburnt
peasants with but little of the bearing of soldiers,
but with an earnest serious expression that seemed
to say they would do their best against the foes who
were the cause of their being torn away from their
homes and occupations. Staff officers galloped
about at full speed; soldiers of the garrison or of
Vinoy’s Corps, who had come in a day or two
before, lounged about the streets looking in at the
shops. No small proportion of the male population
wore képis, which showed that they belonged either
to the National Guard or to the battalions that were
springing into existence.
“Why do we not register our
names to-day!” Rene exclaimed.
“Because a day or two will make
no difference,” Cuthbert replied, “and
it is just as well to find out before we do join something
about the men in command. Let us above all things
choose a corps where they have had the good sense
to get hold of two or three army men, who have had
experience in war, as their field officers. We
don’t want to be under a worthy citizen who
has been elected solely because he is popular in his
quarter, or a demagogue who is chosen because he is
a fluent speaker, and has made himself conspicuous
by his abuse of Napoleon. This is not the time
for tomfoolery; we want men who will keep a tight hand
over us, and make us into fair soldiers. It may
not be quite agreeable at first, but a corps that
shows itself efficient is sure to be chosen when there
is work to be done, and will be doing outpost duty,
whilst many of the others will be kept within the
walls as being of no practical use. Just at present
everything is topsy-turvy, but you may be sure that
Trochu and Vinoy, and the other generals will gradually
get things into shape, and will not be long before
they find what corps are to be depended on and what
are not.”
Crossing the river they made their
way out beyond the walls. Even the light-hearted
students were sobered by the sight beyond. Thousands
of men were engaged on the work of demolition.
Where but ten days since stood villas surrounded by
gardens and trees, there was now a mere waste of bricks
and mortar stretching down to the Forts of Issy and
Vanves. The trees had all been felled and for
the most part cut up and carried into Paris for firewood.
Most of the walls were levelled, and frequent crashes
of masonry showed that these last vestiges of bright
and happy homes would soon disappear. A continuous
stream of carts and foot-passengers came along the
road to the gate-the men grim and bitter,
the women crying, and all laden with the most valued
of their little belongings. Numbers of cattle
and herds of sheep, attended by guards, grazed in
the fields beyond the forts.
“By Jove, Dampierre,”
Cuthbert said, “if I hadn’t made up my
mind to join a corps before, this scene would decide
me. It is pitiful to see all these poor people,
who have no more to do with the war than the birds
in the air, rendered homeless. A good many of
the birds have been rendered homeless too, but fortunately
for them it is autumn instead of spring, and they
have neither nests nor nestlings to think of, and can
fly away to the woods on the slopes below Meudon.”
“What a fellow you are, Hartington,
to be thinking of the birds when there are tens of
thousands of people made miserable.”
“I fancy the birds are just
as capable of feeling misery as we are,” Cuthbert
said quietly, “not perhaps over trivial matters,
though they do bicker and quarrel a good deal among
themselves, but they have their great calamities,
and die of thirst, of hunger, and of cold. I remember
during a very hard frost some years ago our garden
was full of dying birds, though my father had bushels
of grain thrown to them every day. It was one
of the most painful sights I ever saw, and I know I
felt pretty nearly as much cut up at it as I do now.
I hate to see dumb animals suffer. There is a
sort of uncomplaining misery about them that appeals
to one, at any rate appeals to me, infinitely.
These poor fellows are suffering too, you will say.
Yes, but they have their consolation. They promise
themselves that as soon as they get into Paris they
will join a corps and take vengeance on those who have
hurt them. They may think, and perhaps with reason,
that when the trouble is over, they will find their
cottages still standing, and will take up life again
as they left it. They have at least the consolation
of swearing, a consolation which, as far as I know,
is denied to animals and birds.”
“You are a rum fellow, Hartington,
and I never know when you are in earnest and when
you are not.”
“Let us go back,” Rene
Caillard, who, with the others, had been standing
silently, said abruptly. “This is too painful;
I feel suffocated to think that such a humiliation
should fall on Paris. Surely all civilized Europe
will rise and cry out against this desecration.”
He turned and with his comrades walked back towards
the gate. Cuthbert followed with Arnold Dampierre.
“That is just the way with them,”
the former said, “it would have been no desecration
had they encamped before Berlin, but now, because it
is the other way, they almost expect a miracle from
Heaven to interpose in their favor. Curious people
the French. Their belief in themselves is firm
and unshakable, and whatever happens it is the fault
of others, and not of themselves. Now, in point
of fact, from all we hear, the Germans are conducting
the war in a very much more humane and civilized way
than the French would have done if they had been the
invaders, and yet they treat their misfortunes as
if high Heaven had never witnessed such calamities.
Why, the march of the Germans has been a peaceful procession
in comparison with Sherman’s march or Sheridan’s
forays. They have sacked no city, their path
is not marked by havoc and conflagration; they fight
our men, and maybe loot deserted houses, but as a rule
unarmed citizens and peasants have little to complain
of.”
“That is true enough,” the other agreed
reluctantly.
“My opinion is,” Cuthbert
went on, “that all these poor people who are
flocking into Paris are making a hideous mistake.
If they stopped in their villages the betting is that
no harm would have come to them; whereas now they
have left their homes unguarded and untenanted-and
it would not be human nature if the Germans did not
occupy them-while in Paris they will have
to go through all the privations and hardships of a
siege and perhaps of a bombardment; besides there are
so many more hungry mouths to feed. In my opinion
Trochu and the Provisional Government would have acted
very much more wisely had they issued an order that
no strangers, save those whose houses have been destroyed,
should be allowed to enter the city, and advising the
inhabitants of all the villages round either to remain
quietly in their homes, or to retire to places at
a distance. Fighting men might, of course, come
in, but all useless mouths will only hasten the date
when famine will force the city to surrender.”
“You seem very sure that it
will surrender sooner or later, Hartington,”
Dampierre said, irritably. “My opinion is
that all France will rise and come to her rescue.”
“If Bazaine cuts his way out
of Metz they may do it, but we have heard nothing
of his moving, and the longer he stays the more difficulty
he will have of getting out. He has a fine army
with him, but if he once gives time to the Germans
to erect batteries commanding every road out of the
place, he will soon find it well-nigh impossible to
make a sortie. Except that army France has nothing
she can really rely upon. It is all very well
to talk of a general rising, but you can’t create
an army in the twinkling of an eye; and a host of
half-disciplined peasants, however numerous, would
have no chance against an enemy who have shown themselves
capable of defeating the whole of the trained armies
of France. No, no, Dampierre, you must make up
your mind beforehand that you are going in on the
losing side. Paris may hold out long enough to
secure reasonable terms, but I fancy that is about
all that will come of it.”
The other did not reply. He had
something of the unreasoning faith that pervaded France,
that a Republic was invincible, and that France would
finally emerge from the struggle victorious.
“We shall try and find out to-night
about the corps,” Rene Caillard said, as the
others overtook them some distance inside the gates.
“After what we have seen to-day we are all determined
to join without delay. I heard last night from
some men at Veillant’s that they and a good many
others have put their names down for a corps that is
to be called the Chasseurs des Écoles.
They said they understood that it was to be composed
entirely of students. Not all art, of course,
but law and other schools.”
“That would be just the thing,”
Cuthbert said, “if they can only get some good
officers. One likes the men one has to work with
to be a little of one’s own class. Well,
if the officers are all right you can put my name
down. I suppose there is no occasion for me to
go myself.”
“Of course there is occasion,
lazy one. You have to be sworn in.”
Cuthbert nodded. “I suppose
we shan’t have to give up work altogether?”
“I should think not,”
Rene said. “I suppose we shall have two
or three hours’ drill in the morning and nothing
more till the time for action comes. Of course
the troops and the mobiles will do the work at the
forts and walls, and we shall be only called out if
the Prussians venture to attack us, or if we march
out to attack them.”
“So much the better. I
came here to work, and I want to stick to it and not
waste my time in parades and sentry duty. Well,
we shall meet at the studio in the morning and you
can give us your news then.”
Some fifteen young men met on the
following morning at Goude’s studio.
“Now, gentlemen,” said
the artist, a short man, with a large head, and an
abundant crop of yellow hair falling on to his shoulders,
“please to attend to business while you are
here. Paint-you have plenty of time
outside to discuss affairs.”
M. Goude was an artist of considerable
talent, but of peppery temper. He had at one
time gone to war with the Hanging Committee of the
Salon because one of his paintings had been so badly
hung that he declared it to be nothing short of an
insult, and had forthwith proceeded to publish the
most violent strictures upon them. The result
was that on the following year his pictures were not
hung at all, whereupon, after another onslaught upon
them, he had declared his determination never again
to submit a picture to the judgment of men whose natural
stupidity was only equalled by their ignorance of
art.
This vow he had for eight years adhered
to, only occasionally painting a picture and selling
it privately, but devoting himself almost entirely
to the studio he had opened, when he ceased exhibiting.
He was an admirable teacher and his list of pupils
was always full. He was an exacting master and
would take none but students who showed marked ability.
As a preliminary picture had to be presented to him
for examination, and at least three out of four of
the canvases sufficed to ensure their authors’
prompt rejection.
It was, therefore, considered an honor
to be one of Goude’s pupils, but it had its
drawbacks. His criticisms were severe and bitter;
and he fell into violent passions when, as Leroux
once observed, he looked like the yellow dwarf in
a rage. Cuthbert had heard of him from Terrier,
who said that Goude had the reputation of being by
far the best master in Paris. He had presented
himself to him as soon as he arrived there; his reception
had not been favorable.
“It is useless, Monsieur,”
the master had said, abruptly, “there are two
objections. In the first place you are too old,
in the second place you are a foreigner, and I do
not care to teach foreigners. I never had but
one here, and I do not want another. He was a
Scotchman, and because I told him one day when he
had produced an atrocious daub, that he was an imbecile
pig, he seized me and shook me till my teeth chattered
in my head, and then kicked over the easel and went
out.”
“You may call me an imbecile
pig if you like,” Cuthbert said with his quiet
smile, “it would hurt me in no way. I have
come over to learn, and I am told you are the best
master in Paris. When a man is a great master
he must be permitted to have his peculiarities, and
if he likes to treat grown-up men as children, of
course he can do so, for are we not children in art
by his side.”
Monsieur Goude was mollified, but he did not show
it.
“Have you brought any canvases with you?”
“I have brought the last two things I did before
leaving London.”
“Well, you can bring them if
you like,” the master said, ungraciously, “but
I warn you it will be useless. You English cannot
paint, even the best of you. You have no soul,
you are monotonous, but you may bring them.”
An hour later Cuthbert returned to
the studio, which was now occupied by the students.
“You are prompt,” the
master said, looking round from the student whose
work he was correcting with no small amount of grumbling
and objurgation. “Put your things on those
two spare easels, I will look at them presently.”
Seeing that several of the other students
were smoking, Cuthbert filled and lighted his pipe,
calmly placed the pictures on the easels without taking
off the cloths in which they were wrapped, and then
put his hands into the pockets of his velvet jacket
and looked round the room. After his experience
of some of the luxuriously arranged studios at St.
John’s Wood, the room looked bare and desolate.
There was no carpet and not a single chair or lounge
of any description. Some fifteen young fellows
were painting. All wore workmen’s blouses.
All had mustaches, and most of them had long hair.
They appeared intent on their work, but smiles and
winks were furtively exchanged, and the careless nonchalance
of this tall young Englishman evidently amused them.
In four or five minutes M. Goude turned round and
walked towards the easels. Cuthbert stepped to
them and removed the cloths. The master stopped
abruptly, looked at them without speaking for a minute
or two, then walked up and closely examined them.
“They are entirely your own work?” he
asked.
“Certainly, I did not show either
of them to my master until I had finished them.”
They were companion pictures.
The one was a girl standing in a veranda covered with
a grapevine, through which bright rays of sunshine
shone, one of them falling full on her face.
She was evidently listening, and there was a look
of joyous expectancy in her face. Underneath,
on the margin of the canvas, was written in charcoal,
“Hope.” The other represented the
same figure, darkly dressed, with a wan, hopeless look
in her face, standing on a rock at the edge of an angry
sea, over which she was gazing; while the sky overhead
was dark and sombre without a rift in the hurrying
clouds. It was labelled “Despair.”
For two or three minutes longer M.
Goude looked silently at the pictures and then turning
suddenly called out, “Attention, gentlemen.
Regard these pictures, they are the work of this gentleman
who desires to enter my studio. In the eight
years I have been teaching I have had over two hundred
canvases submitted to me, but not one like these.
I need not say that I shall be glad to receive him.
He has been well taught. His technique is good
and he has genius. Gentlemen, I have the honor
to present to you Monsieur Cuthbert Hartington, who
is henceforth one of you.”
The students crowded round the pictures
with exclamations of surprise and admiration.
It was not until M. Goude said sharply “to work,”
that they returned to their easels.
“You will find canvases in that
cupboard if you like to set at work at once.
Choose your own size and subject and sketch it out
in chalk. I should like to see how you work.
Ah, you have a portfolio. I will look through
your sketches this afternoon if you will leave it here.”
Cuthbert chose a canvas from a pile
ready stretched, selected a sketch from his portfolio
of a wayside inn in Normandy, pinned it on the easel
above the canvas, and then began to work. M. Goude
did not come near him until the work was finished
for the morning, then he examined what he had just
done.
“You work rapidly,” he
said, “and your eye is good. You preserve
the exact proportions of the sketch, which is excellent,
though it was evidently done hastily, and unless I
mistake was taken before you had begun really to paint.
You did not know how to use color, though the effect
is surprisingly good, considering your want of method
at the time. I will look through your portfolio
while I am having my lunch. In an hour we resume
work.” So saying he took up the portfolio
and left the room. The students now came up to
Cuthbert and introduced themselves one by one.
“You see our master in his best
mood to-day,” one said. “I never have
seen him so gracious, but no wonder. Now we have
no ceremony here. I am Rene, and this is Pierre,
and this Jean, and you will be Cuthbert.”
“It is our custom in England,”
Cuthbert said, “that a new boy always pays his
footing; so gentlemen, I hope you will sup with me
this evening. I am a stranger and know nothing
of Paris; at any rate nothing of your quarter, so
I must ask two of you to act as a committee with me,
and to tell me where we can get a good supper and enjoy
ourselves.”
From that time Cuthbert had been one
of the brotherhood and shared in all their amusements,
entering into them with a gayety and heartiness that
charmed them and caused them to exclaim frequently
that he could not be an Englishman, and that his accent
was but assumed. Arnold Dampierre had been admitted
two months later. He had, the master said, distinct
talent, but his work was fitful and uncertain.
Some days he would work earnestly and steadily, but
more often he was listless and indolent, exciting
M. Goude’s wrath to fever heat.
Among the students he was by no means
a favorite. He did not seem to understand a joke,
and several times blazed out so passionately that
Cuthbert had much trouble in soothing matters down,
explaining to the angry students that Dampierre was
of hot southern blood and that his words must not
be taken seriously. Americans, he said, especially
in the south, had no idea of what the English call
chaff, and he begged them as a personal favor to abstain
from joking with him, or it would only lead to trouble
in the studio.