Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (384 page)

The young man drew near in the twilight. He was a tall, powerful, gentlemanly fellow, with a somewhat puffy face, dressed in a grey tweed suit, with a deer-stalker hat of the same material; and as he now came forward he carried a knapsack slung upon one arm.

“Are you camping out here too?” he asked, with a strong English accent. “I’m not sorry for company.”

Leon explained their misadventure; and the other told them that he was a Cambridge undergraduate on a walking tour, that he had run short of money, could no longer pay for his night’s lodging, had already been camping out for two nights, and feared he should require to continue the same manoeuvre for at least two nights more.

“Luckily, it’s jolly weather,” he concluded.

“You hear that, Elvira,” said Leon. “Madame Berthelini,” he went on, “is ridiculously affected by this trifling occurrence. For my part, I find it romantic and far from uncomfortable; or at least,” he added, shifting on the stone bench, “not quite so uncomfortable as might have been expected. But pray be seated.”

“Yes,” returned the undergraduate, sitting down, “it’s rather nice than otherwise when once you’re used to it; only it’s devilish difficult to get washed. I like the fresh air and these stars and things.”

“Aha!” said Leon, “Monsieur is an artist.”

“An artist?” returned the other, with a blank stare. “Not if I know it!”

“Pardon me,” said the actor. “What you said this moment about the orbs of heaven - “

“Oh, nonsense!” cried the Englishman. “A fellow may admire the stars and be anything he likes.”

“You have an artist’s nature, however, Mr.- I beg your pardon; may

I, without indiscretion, inquire your name?” asked Leon.

“My name is Stubbs,” replied the Englishman.

“I thank you,” returned Leon. “Mine is Berthelini - Leon Berthelini, ex-artist of the theatres of Montrouge, Belleville, and Montmartre. Humble as you see me, I have created with applause more than one important ROLE. The Press were unanimous in praise of my Howling Devil of the Mountains, in the piece of the same name. Madame, whom I now present to you, is herself an artist, and I must not omit to state, a better artist than her husband. She also is a creator; she created nearly twenty successful songs at one of the principal Parisian music-halls. But, to continue, I was saying you had an artist’s nature, Monsieur Stubbs, and you must permit me to be a judge in such a question. I trust you will not falsify your instincts; let me beseech you to follow the career of an artist.”

“Thank you,” returned Stubbs, with a chuckle. “I’m going to be a banker.”

“No,” said Leon, “do not say so. Not that. A man with such a nature as yours should not derogate so far. What are a few privations here and there, so long as you are working for a high and noble goal?”

“This fellow’s mad,” thought Stubbs; “but the woman’s rather pretty, and he’s not bad fun himself, if you come to that.” What he said was different. “I thought you said you were an actor?”

“I certainly did so,” replied Leon. “I am one, or, alas! I was.”

“And so you want me to be an actor, do you?” continued the undergraduate. “Why, man, I could never so much as learn the stuff; my memory’s like a sieve; and as for acting, I’ve no more idea than a cat.”

“The stage is not the only course,” said Leon. “Be a sculptor, be a dancer, be a poet or a novelist; follow your heart, in short, and do some thorough work before you die.”

“And do you call all these things ART?” inquired Stubbs.

“Why, certainly!” returned Leon. “Are they not all branches?”

“Oh! I didn’t know,” replied the Englishman. “I thought an artist meant a fellow who painted.”

The singer stared at him in some surprise.

“It is the difference of language,” he said at last. “This Tower of Babel, when shall we have paid for it? If I could speak English you would follow me more readily.”

“Between you and me, I don’t believe I should,” replied the other. “You seem to have thought a devil of a lot about this business. For my part, I admire the stars, and like to have them shining - it’s so cheery - but hang me if I had an idea it had anything to do with art! It’s not in my line, you see. I’m not intellectual; I have no end of trouble to scrape through my exams., I can tell you! But I’m not a bad sort at bottom,” he added, seeing his interlocutor looked distressed even in the dim starshine, “and I rather like the play, and music, and guitars, and things.”

Leon had a perception that the understanding was incomplete. He changed the subject.

“And so you travel on foot?” he continued. “How romantic! How courageous! And how are you pleased with my land? How does the scenery affect you among these wild hills of ours?”

“Well, the fact is,” began Stubbs - he was about to say that he didn’t care for scenery, which was not at all true, being, on the contrary, only an athletic undergraduate pretension; but he had begun to suspect that Berthelini liked a different sort of meat, and substituted something else - “The fact is, I think it jolly. They told me it was no good up here; even the guide-book said so; but I don’t know what they meant. I think it is deuced pretty - upon my word, I do.”

At this moment, in the most unexpected manner, Elvira burst into tears.

“My voice!” she cried. “Leon, if I stay here longer I shall lose my voice!”

“You shall not stay another moment,” cried the actor. “If I have to beat in a door, if I have to burn the town, I shall find you shelter.”

With that he replaced the guitar, and comforting her with some caresses, drew her arm through his.

“Monsieur Stubbs,” said he, taking of his hat, “the reception I offer you is rather problematical; but let me beseech you to give us the pleasure of your society. You are a little embarrassed for the moment; you must, indeed, permit me to advance what may be necessary. I ask it as a favour; we must not part so soon after having met so strangely.”

“Oh, come, you know,” said Stubbs, “I can’t let a fellow like you -

“ And there he paused, feeling somehow or other on a wrong tack.

“I do not wish to employ menaces,” continued Leon, with a smile; “but if you refuse, indeed I shall not take it kindly.”

“I don’t quite see my way out of it,” thought the undergraduate; and then, after a pause, he said, aloud and ungraciously enough, “All right. I - I’m very much obliged, of course.” And he proceeded to follow them, thinking in his heart, “But it’s bad form, all the same, to force an obligation on a fellow.”

CHAPTER V

Leon strode ahead as if he knew exactly where he was going; the sobs of Madame were still faintly audible, and no one uttered a word. A dog barked furiously in a courtyard as they went by; then the church clock struck two, and many domestic clocks followed or preceded it in piping tones. And just then Berthelini spied a light. It burned in a small house on the outskirts of the town, and thither the party now directed their steps.

“It is always a chance,” said Leon.

The house in question stood back from the street behind an open space, part garden, part turnip-field; and several outhouses stood forward from either wing at right angles to the front. One of these had recently undergone some change. An enormous window, looking towards the north, had been effected in the wall and roof, and Leon began to hope it was a studio.

“If it’s only a painter,” he said with a chuckle, “ten to one we get as good a welcome as we want.”

“I thought painters were principally poor,” said Stubbs.

“Ah!” cried Leon, “you do not know the world as I do. The poorer the better for us!”

And the trio advanced into the turnip-field.

The light was in the ground floor; as one window was brightly illuminated and two others more faintly, it might be supposed that there was a single lamp in one corner of a large apartment; and a certain tremulousness and temporary dwindling showed that a live fire contributed to the effect. The sound of a voice now became audible; and the trespassers paused to listen. It was pitched in a high, angry key, but had still a good, full, and masculine note in it. The utterance was voluble, too voluble even to be quite distinct; a stream of words, rising and falling, with ever and again a phrase thrown out by itself, as if the speaker reckoned on its virtue.

Suddenly another voice joined in. This time it was a woman’s; and if the man were angry, the woman was incensed to the degree of fury. There was that absolutely blank composure known to suffering males; that colourless unnatural speech which shows a spirit accurately balanced between homicide and hysterics; the tone in which the best of women sometimes utter words worse than death to those most dear to them. If Abstract Bones-and-Sepulchre were to be endowed with the gift of speech, thus, and not otherwise, would it discourse. Leon was a brave man, and I fear he was somewhat sceptically given (he had been educated in a Papistical country), but the habit of childhood prevailed, and he crossed himself devoutly. He had met several women in his career. It was obvious that his instinct had not deceived him, for the male voice broke forth instantly in a towering passion.

The undergraduate, who had not understood the significance of the woman’s contribution, pricked up his ears at the change upon the man.

“There’s going to be a free fight,” he opined.

There was another retort from the woman, still calm but a little higher.

“Hysterics?” asked Leon of his wife. “Is that the stage direction?”

“How should I know?” returned Elvira, somewhat tartly.

“Oh, woman, woman!” said Leon, beginning to open the guitar-case. “It is one of the burdens of my life, Monsieur Stubbs; they support each other; they always pretend there is no system; they say it’s nature. Even Madame Berthelini, who is a dramatic artist!”

“You are heartless, Leon,” said Elvira; “that woman is in trouble.”

“And the man, my angel?” inquired Berthelini, passing the ribbon of his guitar. “And the man, M’AMOUR?”

“He is a man,” she answered.

“You hear that?” said Leon to Stubbs. “It is not too late for you. Mark the intonation. And now,” he continued, “what are we to give them?”

“Are you going to sing?” asked Stubbs.

“I am a troubadour,” replied Leon. “I claim a welcome by and for my art. If I were a banker could I do as much?”

“Well, you wouldn’t need, you know,” answered the undergraduate.

“Egad,” said Leon, “but that’s true. Elvira, that is true.”

“Of course it is,” she replied. “Did you not know it?”

“My dear,” answered Leon impressively, “I know nothing but what is agreeable. Even my knowledge of life is a work of art superiorly composed. But what are we to give them? It should be something appropriate.”

Visions of “Let dogs delight” passed through the undergraduate’s mind; but it occurred to him that the poetry was English and that he did not know the air. Hence he contributed no suggestion.

“Something about our houselessness,” said Elvira.

“I have it,” cried Leon. And he broke forth into a song of Pierre

Dupont’s:-

“Savez-vous ou gite,

Mai, ce joli mois?”

Elvira joined in; so did Stubbs, with a good ear and voice, but an imperfect acquaintance with the music. Leon and the guitar were equal to the situation. The actor dispensed his throat-notes with prodigality and enthusiasm; and, as he looked up to heaven in his heroic way, tossing the black ringlets, it seemed to him that the very stars contributed a dumb applause to his efforts, and the universe lent him its silence for a chorus. That is one of the best features of the heavenly bodies, that they belong to everybody in particular; and a man like Leon, a chronic Endymion who managed to get along without encouragement, is always the world’s centre for himself.

He alone - and it is to be noted, he was the worst singer of the three - took the music seriously to heart, and judged the serenade from a high artistic point of view. Elvira, on the other hand, was preoccupied about their reception; and, as for Stubbs, he considered the whole affair in the light of a broad joke.

“Know you the lair of May, the lovely month?” went the three voices in the turnip-field.

The inhabitants were plainly fluttered; the light moved to and fro, strengthening in one window, paling in another; and then the door was thrown open, and a man in a blouse appeared on the threshold carrying a lamp. He was a powerful young fellow, with bewildered hair and beard, wearing his neck open; his blouse was stained with oil-colours in a harlequinesque disorder; and there was something rural in the droop and bagginess of his belted trousers.

From immediately behind him, and indeed over his shoulder, a woman’s face looked out into the darkness; it was pale and a little weary, although still young; it wore a dwindling, disappearing prettiness, soon to be quite gone, and the expression was both gentle and sour, and reminded one faintly of the taste of certain drugs. For all that, it was not a face to dislike; when the prettiness had vanished, it seemed as if a certain pale beauty might step in to take its place; and as both the mildness and the asperity were characters of youth, it might be hoped that, with years, both would merge into a constant, brave, and not unkindly temper.

“What is all this?” cried the man.

CHAPTER VI

Leon had his hat in his hand at once. He came forward with his customary grace; it was a moment which would have earned him a round of cheering on the stage. Elvira and Stubbs advanced behind him, like a couple of Admetus’s sheep following the god Apollo.

“Sir,” said Leon, “the hour is unpardonably late, and our little serenade has the air of an impertinence. Believe me, sir, it is an appeal. Monsieur is an artist, I perceive. We are here three artists benighted and without shelter, one a woman - a delicate woman - in evening dress - in an interesting situation. This will not fail to touch the woman’s heart of Madame, whom I perceive indistinctly behind Monsieur her husband, and whose face speaks eloquently of a well-regulated mind. Ah! Monsieur, Madame - one generous movement, and you make three people happy! Two or three hours beside your fire - I ask it of Monsieur in the name of Art - I ask it of Madame by the sanctity of womanhood.”