Chapter V (5)

“Yes, little rogue, the clarionet, the young Bull-dog who wants your hand. You know quite well I am speaking of him.”

“But, mamma, I find him so horribly ugly.”

“So do I, my dear; but you have not answered my question.”

“Oh! ah! well! he is vulgar, grotesque, and is as disagreeable as the rain.”

“Quite so,” said my mother; “but again that is not the point. Does he please you when viewed as a sober, steady, desirable husband?”

“I won’t say he does not,” and I burst into tears.

“Come, no nonsense,” said my mother; “I know you would like to be married, and this Bull-dog has many advantages. His double position as clarionet and trombone to the parish secures for him a comfortable living. What more can one require of a husband? I think, my child, that physical beauty and grace are only fleeting, besides you yourself have beauty enough and to spare to adorn a whole family. It is by the intelligent union of opposite natures that conjugal felicity is best secured. Well, that being so, it becomes a positive advantage for you to acquire a thoroughly ugly husband, a heavy, taciturn, serious, hard-working husband, who is certain to be a model of economy and affection.”

I saw at a glance that my mother was right, and gave my consent. Had it all to be done over again, I think now I should do exactly as I did then. A sure, steady husband is a great prize in life. It is always good to have bread on the shelf, and one must be very stupid indeed not to be able to get little luxuries.

I therefore said: “Let us marry!”

Do not human beings say: “Let us take our degree; it will be the making of us.”

To say my honeymoon was long and delightful, or that I discovered a hitherto unknown mine of devotion and romance beneath the hard crust of my husband’s unsightly exterior, would be simply fiction. It is much nearer the mark to say at once that the coarse {152} nature of my spouse soon revealed itself in all its odiousness. His every look, every movement, wounded my refined susceptibility. He rose at daybreak, and awoke me with the snorting of his clarionet, which he played with that degree of obstinacy and labour which belongs to mediocrity.

“Softly, my dear, softly; I tell you it would be better so,” I would say.

He strove with all his might to modulate the notes, but for all that his tenderest passages made everything tremble. I even shook with rage! What irritated me most was that his instrument monopolised his whole attention.

“Won’t you take a walk? have a little fresh air?” I would say to him. “You must feel tired, dear.”

I could have beaten him. When we walked out together he used to stop and gossip at all the street corners, turning up all sorts of filthy heaps. Oh, how he made me suffer; he was born to be a butcher’s dog. How many times has he not left me to pick up a bone, or quarrel with some inoffensive dog? His loud laugh and vulgar conversation with ill-conditioned curs, and . . .

I began to hate him; he bothered me, irritated me beyond measure. I own he would have cut himself in quarters to make our home happy, and he worked like a slave. But, alas! money can never compensate for a badly-assorted match. Little by little I withdrew myself from his company, and took to loitering about alone. I frequented a public garden, the resort of the aristocratic world, where every one was seen to advantage. My delight knew no bounds when I discovered that I was much noticed. I had found my own set at last.

One day I remember walking along a shady alley when I heard a voice whisper, “Oh, madam, how happy would he be who, in the midst of the crowd, could attract your attention.” These words, so respectfully uttered, and so full of a something, a sort of passionate earnestness, pleased me immensely. I turned and beheld a well-dressed, beautiful insect flying near me. His manner was so graceful and his flight so fashionable, that I at once perceived he had moved in the higher circles of the air-istocracy; besides, he seemed to me to know his value, and to account himself a very fine fellow indeed.

“Ah, Greyhound!” he said, “how beautiful you are. What a fine head you have—a true type of the classic. Your feet would hardly {153} soil a lily-leaf. Your silky dress, too, is so simple; yet it is enough to set off such charms as yours.”

I quickened my pace, trembling at the audacity of this polished flatterer. Still he followed, and his voice vibrated in my ear like {154} delicious music. He had evidently no ordinary appreciation of the beautiful.

“You are married, sweet one?” he added.

I could not resist the temptation of fancying that my fetters were broken, so I replied gaily, “No, I am a widow, sir!”

I saw no harm in this flirtation. What danger was there, after all, in the fact that an insect thought me pretty, and expressed his admiration? It cannot be too well impressed, upon all whom it may concern, that beauty must be appreciated; the public gaze is the sun, which warms it into bloom, and sustains its vitality; cold indifference first mars, and then destroys it. Our coquetry simply expresses a natural craving for being seen, a thoroughly honest and respectable ambition. I had no shade of guilty intention, or exaggerated pride; it was only the consciousness of a tribute, paid daily by the sun to the flower which opens to display its charms to the heavenly gaze. I looked upon this tribute of the world as my right. To prove that I was the most virtuous greyhound in Paris, I felt intoxicated by the words of my new admirer.

“Your eyes are terribly bright,” said my husband on my return home. He was polishing a bone in a corner of our kennel—where he had picked it up, I do not know—“your voice is sweeter than usual.”

“To please you, my eyes must grow dim and my voice husky,” I replied.

Nothing is more galling than these simple remarks some people are always making, and asking why you detest them. My spouse was growing more and more distasteful to me. The trouble he takes to please me is most annoying. I hate to profit by his ridiculous labour, to eat his bread; all the time thinking that I owe it to the infernal clarionet he plays so badly. His irritating temper is killing me, his unutterable calm and absolute self-control compel me to shut up within myself all my bad temper, my indignation, my scorn! This sort of thing is perfectly frightful when one is nervous.

Life became a burden, and the polished insect soon found it out, for he followed me about with his dreamy, delicious buzzing.

“Greyhound, you are unhappy! you are suffering! I feel it, I see it. Grief ought not to touch a heart so tender,” he said in tones so pathetic, that I looked upon him as a deliverer.

“Care will line your forehead and tarnish your beauty!”

I shuddered. What he said was, alas! too true, anxiety would {155} certainly rob me of my charms, clog my steps, and veil my eyes. His words kindled my wrath against my husband, who would surely bring this grief upon me.

“Well,” pursued the insect, “why not amuse yourself, come with me into the woods. Go on in front, and I shall follow, so that I may admire you, and drive away your gloom with my songs. Come, let us fly from the city-throng, and fill our breasts with the pure air of the fields.”

I was choking; air I must have, air at any price. “To-morrow at such an hour, be at such a place, and we shall go out together.”

It must not be thought, that by granting a rendezvous to this insect, I yielded to foolish sentiment. I simply did it to oblige him, because he rendered justice to my charms, and spoke ceaselessly about me.

When I reached home that evening, I suppose my face must have expressed more than usual disgust, for my musician stood looking at me for several minutes without uttering a single word, and then two large tears rolled down his cheeks; he was grotesque. Nothing is more dreadful than an ugly animal, who adds to his ugliness the horrors of grief. I expected a scene and reproaches, my heart swelled within me, as I said to myself, “Let him but speak, get angry, curse me; I will do the same, and oppose anger to anger. Passion is like a storm, when it has burst and is over, it refreshes the earth. I began to sing snatches of songs, like little bits of forked lightning, to bring about the crisis. But he did nothing, and said nothing, two or three times he sniffed badly, and carefully placing his clarionet in its dirty case, put on his cap, and said—

“Good night, my dear, I am going to the theatre.”

What did these tears mean; did he think that he was odious to me? He did not seem jealous; how could he be so? was I not the most irreproachable, and, at the same time, most miserable of wives? Oh, if I had only something to break, scratch, or bite! How he does make me suffer!

Next day at the appointed hour, we met at our rendezvous. My fine companion, who had been impatiently waiting for me, exclaimed, “How beautiful you are! let us start for the woods.”

“Yes,” I replied, quite flattered, “I am ready.”

So off we started. Although my mind was made up, a certain foreboding of evil troubled me. I could not throw it off. It occurred to me that I had gone too far, and was approaching the edge of a volcano. {156}

{157}

“What is the matter, dear?” said the insect.

“Do you not see those ambulating musicians over there at that window?”

“Yes; they are showing performing Beetles to the inmates of the house. It seems to me they have to work hard for a living.”

“Doubtless, but I am afraid, they look so strange. Please let us go some round-about way; I am trembling.”

We followed a street to the left, and continued our course, yet I felt uneasy. It was a presentiment, for that day I had one of the most disagreeable meetings imaginable. We were just emerging from the suburbs when I descried in a corner an obscure mass, which turned out to be one of those performing Bears who figure at fairs and markets. He was making a Tortoise go through all sorts of wonderful exercises. Nothing was more natural than to meet this Bear, and yet I shivered all over. As my fears seemed unfounded, we continued to advance, and came close to the performer. The keen eye of this monster shot forth fire, and he sprang forward to bar my way.

“What are you doing here, madam?” he exclaimed, crossing his arms.

“Pray what does it matter to you what madam is doing here?” said my protector. “On my honour you are a bold fellow. Who are you, I pray? Speak! Who are you?”

“Who am I?” he breathed heavily. “I am the husband of this lady.”

Saying which, he threw off the bearskin disguise, and revealed the clarionet, the musician, the Bull dog, my husband, in fact, pale as death and a prey to horrible passion. He was frightful; although, to tell the truth, I liked him better excited, furious, grinding his teeth with rage, than calm and resigned, with tears in his eyes. He was really not so ugly as usual. Unfortunately the picture was spoilt by the cap which he kept on his head. That was a fault not to be pardoned. Readers of the opposite sex will hardly understand how it is that no detail escapes us.

“Madam,” said my husband gravely.

This was another defect of his, to be grave! It was evident that he had prepared a speech, and weighed its effects. The insect hidden behind my ear said in a low voice: “What! is it possible, my queen of beauty, that you are married to this brute?”

I blushed to the tip of my nose. {158}

“Madam,” continued my master. “Mada”—

Here he sneezed in the most comical manner. Perhaps a hair of the bearskin had got lodged in his nose. I laughed loudly, and quite as involuntarily as he had sneezed.

“Madam, follow me,” continued my husband, quite losing his head. “This is too much; follow me!”

“I advise him not to touch you,” said my protector, still hiding behind my ear; “as I really think I should not be responsible for my actions. I feel savage!”

He had not time to finish his sentence. My husband, as quick as lightning, seized him as he was flying, and mutilated him horribly. I do not know what followed. I became mad, and by a violent effort disengaged myself from my husband’s paws, and jumping over his head, started off. I soon turned to look back, and saw the Bull-dog struggling with the police, making desperate efforts to get free, but the bearskin got entangled about his feet, and paralysed his movements, and at last he was carried off prisoner, followed by a jeering crowd.

So, I reflected, I am free; and pursued my way. The pure bracing air and deep blue of the sky had lost their charm. My breast was filled with indignation. I felt humiliated by this absurd jealousy, this scandalous outburst at once comic and tragic. The comic element annoyed me most. This prosaic clarionet appearing all at once upon the scene to dispel the dream of my life—can he ever be forgiven? After wandering about till I was giddy, I bent my steps homeward, and on entering found the place empty. It seemed to me I had lost something or some one. In truth, the deserted kennel filled me with strange longings for my poor husband. One gets used even to ugly, awkward things. If camels were at one fell swoop deprived of their humps, they would feel strange without them.

At this moment a letter was handed to me, ornamented with an imposing seal. It was an invitation from the authorities to be present at my husband’s examination. The disguise in which he had been found, as well as a weapon discovered in his shoe, told badly against him.

Next day after breakfast—I had risen very late—and after finishing my toilet set out for prison to cheer my husband. It proved a great trial to my nerves. I passed through damp, dark corridors, enormous keys grating in horrible locks; heavy doors barred with iron were {159} opened, and I entered a place crowded by miserable, ill-conditioned, dirty, repulsive animals.

Picking my steps into the midst of this filthy den, afraid to breathe {160} the vitiated air, I beheld my husband seated in a corner. Expecting reproaches and a tragic scene, I held myself in readiness to stand my ground. But contrary to my expectations he lay down at my feet and sobbed, begging my forgiveness.

I was quite touched—although the scene afforded amusement to the other prisoners—and resolved to do my best to obtain his release. I am naturally tender-hearted, too much so indeed. It was most proper on his part, that he owned his faults and ugliness, and rendered homage to my beauty.

I went at once to the presiding judge, who, viewing me over his spectacles, was astonished at my attractive appearance. He was clever, amiable, and leisurely, so that the trial of my husband lasted a long time.

Now is the moment when I must own a strange fact, and let in the light on a hitherto dark recess in my heart. Hardly was my Bull-dog incarcerated than my hatred of him changed to affection. He was no longer there for me to grumble at, and every time my eyes caught his clarionet in the corner they filled with tears. I was almost frightened at the power this morally and physically imperfect creature had over me, and the place he had filled in my life. His comical face, his cap, even his silence were wanting. I never knew where to vent my bad temper, which at times made me feel fit to burst. I tried to distract my attention, fearing lest my health should give way, but it was of no avail. I hardly dare to say it, I loved my Bull-dog, the jealous clarionet, I loved him! For all that, consideration for my feelings prevented me repeating my visit to the noxious prison which caused me a dreadful attack of neuralgia.

Thanks to my keeping him out of sight, his image became idealised in my imagination. In my dreams he appeared clothed in charms not his own. The news of his release was such a shock to my nerves that I nearly fainted. I rejoiced in his freedom. Soon after he arrived, but oh dear, how ugly he was! His coat was dirty, and his whole being steeped in an odour most offensive. A block of ice had fallen on my heart.

“My Greyhound! my wife! my darling!” he cried, running to meet me.

“Good morning, my friend,” I replied, averting my nose. I had no courage to say more, my dreams had vanished.

All this passed long ago. Now my indignation brings the smile to my lips. Nothing more. I have learned to make the most of my {161} bargain. If I made a mistake, and married a clarionet in place of a first-class tenor, I determined not to die of grief, but rather to be as brave as beautiful, and devote myself to cultivating all that was good in my Bull-dog. He has left off wearing his cap, and positively plays better; his walk is improved, and, by the dim light of the lamp, his profile is marked by a certain character.

“How pretty you are, little heartless one,” he sometimes says. I reply in the same tone, “How ugly you are, my fat jealous one.”

{162}

TOPAZ THE PORTRAIT-PAINTER.

I am his heir, I was his confidant, so that no one can better relate his history than myself.

Born in a virgin forest in Brazil—where his mother rocked him on interlacing boughs—when quite young he was caught by Indian hunters and sold at Rio, with a collection of parrots, paroquets, humming-birds, and buffalo-skins. He was brought to Havre in a ship, where he became the pet of the sailors, who, in addition to teaching him to handle the ropes, made him acquainted with all manner of tricks. His sea-life was so full of fun and frolic, that he would never have regretted quitting his forest home had he not left the warm sunshine behind.

The captain of the ship, who had read “Voltaire,” called him Topaz, after Rustan’s good valet, because he had a bare, yellow face. Before arriving in port, Topaz had received an education similar to that of his {163} fellow countryman on the barge, Vert-Vert, who shocked the nuns by his manner. That of Topaz was also decidedly briny, as was quite natural from his nautical experience. Once in France, he might easily have passed for a second Lazarelle de Tormes, or another Gil Blas, if one cared to name all the masters under which he studied up to the time of full-grown Monkeyhood.

Suffice it to say, that as a youth he lodged in an elegant boudoir in the rue Neuve-Saint-Georges, where he was the delight of a charming personage, who finished his education by treating him as a spoilt child. He led an easy life, and was happier than a prince. In an unlucky hour he bit the nose of a respectable old dotard called the Count, the protector of his fair mistress. This liberty so incensed the old gentleman, he at once declared that the lady must choose between him and the beast, one of the two must leave the house.

The tyranny of a rich, old husband prevailed, and Topaz was secretly sent to the studio of a young artist, to whom the lady had been sitting for her portrait.

This event, simple in itself, opened up for him a new career. Seated on a wooden form in place of a silken couch, eating crusts of stale bread and drinking plain water instead of orange syrup, Topaz was brought to well-doing by misery, the great teacher of morality and virtue, when it does not sink the sufferer deeper into the slough of debauchery and vice. Having nothing better to do, Topaz reflected on his precarious, dependent position, and his mind was filled with a longing for liberty, labour, and glory. He felt he had come to the critical point of his life, when it was necessary for him to choose a profession. No career seemed to offer the same freedom and boundless prospects as that followed by the successful artist. This became a settled conviction in his mind, and, like Pareja the slave of Velasquez, he set himself to picking up the secrets of the limner’s art, and might be seen daily perched on the top of the easel, watching each mixture of colour, and each stroke of the brush. As soon as his master’s back was turned, he descended, and going over the work with a light hand, and a second coat of colours, retired one or two paces to admire the effect. During such moments he might be heard muttering between his teeth, the words used by Corregio, and later by the crowd of youthful geniuses with which Paris is inundated: _Ed io anche son pittore_. One day, when his vanity caused him to forget his usual prudence, the master caught him at work. He had entered his studio elated with joy, having {164} received a commission to paint a cartoon of the Deluge, for a church at Boulogne-sur-Mer, where it rains all the year round. Nothing renders one so generous as self-satisfaction; instead, therefore, of taking the mahl-stick and beating his disciple, “In good faith,” he said, like a second Velasquez, “since you wish to be an artist, I give you your liberty, and, instead of my servant, I make you my pupil.”

Here Topaz became an historical pilferer; he arranged his hair like the powdered wig of a country priest, caught together the straggling hairs of his beard into a point, put on a high-peaked hat, dressed himself in a tight-fitting coat over which the ruffle of his shirt fell in folds, and, in short, tried to look as much as possible like a portrait of Van Dyck. Thus attired, with his portfolio under his arm, and colour-box in hand, he began to frequent the schools. But, alas! like so many apprentice artists, who are men with all their faculties fully developed, Topaz followed the empty dreams of his ambition, rather than the teaching of common sense. It was not long before he found this out. When the works of his master were not available, he had to begin with the bare canvas, and unaided lay in outline, form, light, shadow, and colour; when, in fact, instead of imitation, originality and talent were required, then, alas! good-bye to the visions of Topaz. It was no good his working, perspiring, worrying, knocking his head, tearing his beard. Pegasus, always restive, refused to carry him to the Helicon of fortune and renown. In plain English, he did nothing worth the materials wasted in its production: masters and pupils urged him to choose some other means of making a living.

“Be a mason, or a shoemaker; your talent lies more in the direction of trade!” It was in truth a pity that Topaz—full-grown ape as he was—should have been the slave of his narrow pride and vanity. That he should have aspired to fill a grand, generous, imposing, humanlike roll. I have often heard him say he would follow the example of the men of the Middle Ages, study medicine among the Arabs; and then return to teach it to the Christians. His foolish ambition was to transmit, from cultured men to apes, the knowledge of art, and, by idealising his fellows in portraiture, to place them on the level of the Lords of Creation. His chagrin was as profound as his project had been visionary. Wounded by the dreadful fall his vanity had sustained, sulky, ashamed, discontented with the world and with himself, Topaz, losing his sleep, appetite, and vivacity, fell into a languishing illness {165} which threatened his life. Happily he had no physician, Nature fought out the battle for herself, and won.

About this time Daguerre, a scenic artist, completed the discovery which has rendered his name famous. He made an important step in science by fixing the photographic image, so that objects, animate and inanimate, might be caught on a silver plate. Thus photography became the handmaid of science and art. I had just made the acquaintance of a musical genius—human—to whom nature had refused both voice and ear; he sang out of tune, danced out of time, and for all that, was passionately fond of music. He had masters for the piano, flute, hunting-horn, and accordion. He tried the different methods of Wilhem, Paston, Cheve, and Jocotot. None of them answered, he could neither produce time nor harmony; what did he do in order to satisfy his taste? He bought a barrel-organ and took his money’s worth out of it, by turning the handle night and day. He certainly had the wrist of a musician.

It was a similar expedient which brought back Topaz to life, with its hopes of fame, fortune, and apostolic insignia. The Jesuits and Turks say the end justifies the means, so, acting on this philosophic saying, Topaz adroitly stole a purse from a rich financier who was sleeping in his master’s studio, while the latter was trying to paint his portrait. With this treasure he bought his barrel-organ, a photographic camera, and learning how to use it, he all at once became artist, painter, and man of science.

This talent acquired, added to a brace of fine names, he felt already half way towards reaching the coveted goal. To realise his hopes, he took his passage at Havre in a ship about to cross the Atlantic, and after a prosperous voyage, again set foot on the shore where, only a few years before, he had embarked for France. What a change had come over his position. From Monkey-boy he had become Monkey-man. In place of a prisoner of war he had become free, and above all, from an ignorant brute—the condition in which Nature sent him into the world—he had developed into a sort of civilised ape. His heart beat fast as he landed on his native soil. It was sweet to visit familiar scenes, after so long an absence. Without losing so much time as I take to write, he started off, camera on back, to seek the grand solitudes of his infancy, where he hoped to become the pioneer of progress. In his secret heart—he owned it to me—there was still the burning desire for fame. He hoped to create a sensation, to be regarded as {166} more than a common beast to enjoy the victory he would so easily win, over the natives of the country, by his title of Illustrious Traveller, backed by his knowledge and his wonderful machine. These were his true sentiments, but he cherished the delusion that he was impelled onwards by the irresistible force which urges forward the predestined ones—the leaders of mankind—to play their part in the world. Arrived at the scene of his birth, without even looking up his friends and relatives, Topaz pitched his camp in a vast glade, a sort of public common which Nature had reserved in the forest. There, aided by a black-faced Sapajo called Ebony, after the other servant of Rustan, who became his slave after the manner of men, who find in colour a sufficient reason for drawing the line which separates master from slave, Topaz set up an elegant hut of branches beneath an ample shade of banana leaves, and above his door he placed a signboard, bearing the fable, “Topaz, painter after the Parisian fashion;” and on the door itself, in smaller letters, “Entrance to the Studio.” After sending a number of magpies to announce his arrival, to all the country round, he opened his shop.

In order to place his services within the reach of all—as no currency had ever yet been instituted—Topaz adopted the ancient custom of receiving payment in kind. A hundred nuts, a bunch of bananas, six cocoa-nuts, and twenty sugar-canes, was the price of a portrait. As the inhabitants of the Brazilian forest were still in the golden age, they knew nothing whatever about property, heritage, or the rights of mine and thine. They knew that the earth and its fruits were free to all, and that a good living might be picked off the trees, and an indifferent living off the ground. Topaz had many difficulties to contend against; by no means the least was the fact that no one is great in his own country, and especially among his own friends. The first visits he received were from monkeys, a quick and curious, but also a very spiteful, race.

Hardly had they seen the camera in action before they set to work to make spurious imitations of the dark box. Instead of admiring, honouring, and recompensing their brother for his toil in bringing this art-treasure to their country, they strove to discover his secret, and reap the profits of his labour. Here, then, was our artist at war with counterfeiters. Happily it was not a simple case of reprinting an English book in Germany or America. The apes might puzzle their brains, and toil with their four feet, and even combine one with the {167} other—amongst them, as elsewhere, one can easily find accomplices to carry out a bad scheme,—all they could do, was to make a box and cover like the camera and focusing cloth of Topaz; but they had neither lens nor chemicals. After many trials and as many failures, they became furious, and planned the ruin of Topaz; thus proving the truth of the saying, “One must look for enemies among one’s fellow-countrymen, friends, and relations; even in one’s own house”—

“Araña; quien te araño Otra araña como yo.”

But no matter, merit makes its own way in defiance of envy and hatred, and finds its true level like oil that rises to the surface of water. It so happened that a personage of importance, an animal of weight, a Boar in fact, passing through the glade and seeing the signboard, paused to reflect. It seemed to this Boar that one need not of necessity be a quack or charlatan, because one comes from a distance, or because one offers something new and startling; also that a wise, moderate, impartial spirit always takes the trouble to examine things before condemning them. Another and much more private reason tempted the thoughtful Boar to test the stranger’s talent; for side by side with the great actions of life there is frequently some petty, contemptible secret, and personal motive which, as it were, supplies the mainspring of action. This little motive is always studiously concealed, even from its owner’s view, like the mainspring of a watch in its shining case. But the little spring, true to its work, marks the time on the dial, the hour, minute, and second, which heralds the birth of all that is noble, and all that is mean in life. This applies with kindred force to the instinct of brutes, and aspirations of men.

Our Boar was a lineal descendant of the companion of Ulysses who, touched by the wand of Circé, is supposed to have addressed his captain thus—

“How am I changed? My beauty as a boar I’ll prove,
How knowest thou, one form is worst, another best?
Grace and good breeding are in my form express’d,
At least it has been said so by those who know.”

He was a trifle foppish and very much in love. It was to make a gift to his betrothed he wished for a portrait.

Entering the studio he paid down double the usual price, as this Boar was the most liberal member of his government. He then seated himself solidly down in his appointed place where his steadiness and {168} unconcern rendered him a capital subject for the camera. Topaz on his part exercised all his skill in posing, lighting, and photographing. The portrait was a perfect gem, his lordship was delighted. The little {169} image seemed to reduce his bulk in every way, while the silvery grey of the metallic plate replaced with advantage the sombre monotony of his dark coat. It was a most agreeable surprise, and fast as his bulk and dignity would permit him, he hastened to present the picture to his idol. The loved one was in rapture, and by a peculiar feminine instinct she first suspended the miniature round her neck, then, as instinctively, called together her relatives and friends to form an admiring circle around her lover’s portrait. Thanks to her enthusiasm, before the day was over, all the animal inhabitants for miles round were appraised of the marvellous talent of Topaz, who soon became quite the rage. His cabin was visited at all hours of the day, the camera was never for a moment idle. As for Sapajo he had more than enough to do in preparing the plates for every new comer. With the exception of the apes there was not a single creature in earth, air, or water, who had not sat for a likeness to the famous Topaz.

One of his chief patrons was a Royal bird, the sovereign of a winged principality, who arrived surrounded by a brilliant staff of general officers and aide-de-camps. The artist was greatly annoyed by the remarks of a group of obsequious courtiers who bent over the desk alternately praising the prince, and criticising the portraits. The finished work, nevertheless, afforded satisfaction to the potentate who, proud of his tufted crown and brilliant feathers, gazed fondly down upon his image.

His conduct was quite different from that of the Boar. Although the king was accompanied by a splendid pea-hen, his wife by morganatic marriage, he himself retained the portrait, and, like Narcissus, before the fountain, fell in love with his own image. Happy are they who love themselves. They need not fear coldness, or disdain. They can feel no grief of absence, or pangs of jealousy. If the sayings of human philosophers are true, love is only a form of self-esteem which leaves its habitual abode, seeking to extend its dominion over the passions of another.

To return to Topaz, he touched up his portraits to suit the taste and vanity of his customers. In this, it must be owned, he did not always succeed. Some of his clients were all beak, and had no focus in them; others could not sit steady for a second, the result was, they figured on the plate with two heads, and a group of hands like Vishnu, the heathen god. They jerked their tails at some fatal moment, rendering them invisible in the photograph. Pelicans thought {170} their beaks too long. Cockatoos complained of the shortness of theirs. Goats said their beards had been tampered with. Boars held that their eyes were too piercing. Squirrels wanted action. Chameleons changing colour; while the donkey thought his portrait incomplete without the sound of his mellifluous voice. Most comical of all—the owl, who had shut his eyes to the sun, maintained that he was represented stone-blind, thus destroying his chief attraction. In the laboratory of Topaz, as in the painter’s studio, might be seen constantly in attendance a troop of young lions, the sons of the aristocracy, who came to loiter away their leisure. They prided themselves in being judges of art, called all the muscles of the face by their anatomical names; and spoke of graceful sweeps, handling of the brush, tooling, modelling, breadth of expression, &c., &c. Under pretext of enjoying the society of the artist, they twitted and laughed at his clients. To the crow, if he showed face at the entrance with his glossy black coat, and gouty, magisterial step, they cried in chorus—

“Oh! good morning, Mr. Crow, come in, nothing shows up so well as a good, black coat.” Then they gently reminded him of his adventure with the fox and the stolen cheese.

One day a good fellow, a duck, left his reeds and swamps, and came with much ado to the studio, desirous of seeing his image to greater perfection than in his native stream. As soon as he appeared, one of the clique approached and taking off his cap, said—

“Ah, sir, you must be a great observer, you constantly move from side to side. What is the news?”

No one escaped their sarcasm; many were offended, many more lost their temper, and as for Topaz, he lost some of his best customers. But he really could not afford to offend the lions, as they belonged to good families, and were careful to flatter his vanity; besides, they were by no means bad fellows, when in their generous moods.

In spite of these petty troubles and annoyances—who is exempt from them in this world?—Topaz filled his barns; and his fame increased, keeping pace with his fortune. He perceived that the time had arrived for him to fill a larger field. His own industry had secured for him riches and honour, but the dream of his life was yet unfulfilled. Why should he not embrace the golden opportunity, and become a great teacher, a benefactor of his kind? His fame had reached the ears of a distant potentate, an Elephant-sovereign whose territory was somewhere—no matter where—it had never found its way into any {172} map; no civilised being had ever set foot on his soil. This Elephant sent an embassy to the Parisian painter, charged with the mission of bringing Topaz to his court. He was an elephantine Francis I., calling to his presence another Léonardo da Vinci. His brilliant offers were at once accepted. This is how absolute monarchs proceed in their caprices, Topaz was promised, besides a considerable share of the native produce, the title of Cacique, and the ribbon of the ivory tooth. The artist set off mounted on a horse, and followed by a mule, bearing his faithful Sapajo and his precious machine. He at length arrived without accident at the court of the Sultan Poussal. Topaz was at once introduced to his Royal Highness, by the usual Minister of Rites and Ceremonies. The artist prostrated himself before the potentate, who gracefully raised him with the point of his proboscis, and allowed him to kiss one of his enormous feet, the same foot which later—but I must not anticipate events. His Massive Majesty was in such a ferment of impatient curiosity, that before taking any rest or refreshment, Topaz was requested to unpack his box and set to work without delay. He accordingly prepared his instrument, heated his drugs, and selected his finest plate for the royal image. The plate was small, but it was necessary that the entire elephant should figure on its surface.

“Good,” said Topaz, “since it is a miniature His Majesty requires, I am certain he will be delighted with the result” (Topaz recalled his early experience with the Boar).

He placed the king as far as possible from the camera so as to diminish his image and fill the plate, after which he conducted his operations with the nicest care. All the courtiers awaited the result with anxiety as profound as if it were the casting of a statue. The sun was scorching. After a few minutes the artist took up the plate lightly, and triumphantly presented it to the gaze of His Majesty; hardly had the king cast his eyes upon it, when he burst into a loud laugh, and without knowing why, all the courtiers joined in the royal hilarity. It was like an Olympian scene.

“What is this?” roared the Elephant as soon as he could speak. “That is the portrait of a rat, and you presume to say it is me? You are joking, my friend” (the laughter still continued), “why,” continued the king after silence had been restored, his tone getting gradually more and more severe, “it is owing to my great size and strength that I have been chosen king. Were I to exhibit this miserable portrait to my subjects they would imagine I was an insect, a weak, hardly {173} perceptible, creature, only fit to be dethroned and crushed. The interest of the State, sir, forbids my taking this course,” saying which, he hurled the plate at the artist, who bowed down to the ground, not so much from humility as to escape a shock that would have been fatal to {174} him. “I should have tested the truth of the stories so freely circulated about you.”

The king and his ministers were becoming furious.

“Ugh! you are one of the hawkers of inventions and secrets, one of those innovators we have heard so much of, who prowl about seeking what good old institution they can devour; fellows who would bring down our constitution, and heaven itself about our ears, with their infernal machines. Bah!”

Here the mighty king stepped over the still prostrate body of the artist, and approaching the innocent machine—in his eyes big with the darkest plots ever brewed in the heart of a State—full of a no less legitimate wrath than Don Quixote, when breaking the marionettes of Master Peter, he raised his formidable foot, and crushed the camera to atoms.

Adieu fortune, honour, fame, civilisation! Adieu art! adieu artist! At the sound of the smashing which announced his doom, Topaz sprang to his feet, and starting off like a man, ended his sorrows in the waters of the Amazon.

He who became his heir and confidant was Ebony, the poor black Sapajo, who came over to Europe and studied at one of the universities, in order to qualify himself to write this history.

{175}

JOURNEY OF AN AFRICAN LION TO PARIS, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

In which the political reasons for the visit of Prince Leo shall be fully discussed.

At the foot of the Atlas, on its desert side, there reigns an old Lion. Much of his youth was spent in travelling. He had visited the Mountains of the Moon, lived in Barbary, Timbuctoo, in the land of the Hottentots, among the republicans of Tangier, and among Troglodytes. From his universal benevolence he acquired the name of Cosmopolite, or friend of all the world. Once on the throne, it became his policy to justify the jurisprudence of the lions; carrying this beautiful axiom into practice—“To take is to learn.” He passed for one of the most erudite monarchs of his time, and, strange as it may seem, he utterly detested letters and learning. “They muddle still more what was muddled before.” This was a saying in which he took peculiar delight.

It was all very well; his subjects, nevertheless, were possessed by an insane craving for progress and knowledge. Claws appeared menacing him on all points. The popular displeasure poisoned even the members of the Cosmopolite’s family who began to murmur. They complained bitterly of his habit of shutting himself up with a griffin, and counting his treasure without permitting a single eye to rest upon the heap. {176}

This Lion spoke much, but acted little. Apes, perched on trees, took to expounding most dangerous political and social doctrines; tigers and leopards demanded a fair division of the revenue, as indeed, in most commonwealths, the question of meat and bones divided the masses.

On various occasions the old Lion had to resort to severe measures to quell the public discontent. He employed troops of savage dogs and hyenas to act as spies, but they demanded a high price for their service. Too old to fight, the Cosmopolite was desirous of ending his days peacefully—as he said, in Leonine language—“to die in his den.” Thus his difficulties and the instability of his throne set him to scheming.

When the young princes became troublesome he stopped their allowance of food, wisely reflecting that there is nothing like an empty stomach for sharpening instinct, and sending the young lions to seek food abroad. At last, finding Liona in a state of hopeless agitation, he hit upon a very advanced policy for an animal of his age, viewed by diplomatists as the natural development of the tricks which rendered his youth famous.

One evening while surrounded by his family, it is recorded that the king yawned several times. In the annals of a less enlightened State this important fact might have been overlooked. He then uttered these memorable words: “I feel age and infirmity creeping on apace. I am weary of rolling the stone called royal power. My mane has grown grey in the service of my country; I have spent my strength, my genius, and my fortune; and what, my children, is the result? Simply nothing! nothing, save discontent! I ought to lavish bones and honours on my supporters. Should I succeed in this, it would hardly stifle the national discontent. Every one is complaining, I alone am satisfied; but, alas! infirmity gains upon me so surely, that I have resolved to abdicate in favour of my children. You are young, you have energy and cunning; get rid of the leaders of popular discontent by sending them to victory, to death!” Here the venerable potentate, recalling his youth, growled a national hymn, and ended by urging his tender-hearted sons to “sharpen their claws, and bristle their manes.”

“Father,” said the heir-apparent, “if you are really disposed to yield to the national will, I will own to you that the lions from all {178} parts of Africa, furious at the _far niente_ of your Majesty, were about to take up arms against the State.”

“Ah, my fine fellow,” thought the king, “you are attacked by the malady of royal princes, and would wish for nothing better than my abdication. I shall teach you a lesson.”

“Prince,” replied the Cosmopolite in a roar, “one no longer reigns by glory, but by cunning. I will convince you of this by placing you in harness.”

As soon as the news flashed through Africa, it created a great sensation. Never before, in the annals of history, had a Lion of the desert been known to abdicate; some had been dethroned by usurpers, never had a king of beasts voluntarily left the throne. The event was therefore viewed with some apprehension, as it had no precedent.

Next morning at daybreak, the Grand Dog Commander of the Life Guards appeared in his gay costume, fully armed, and around him the guard ranged in battle-array. The king occupied the throne, surmounted by the royal arms representing a chimera pursued by a poignard. Then, before all the birds composing his court, the great Griffin brought the sceptre and crown to the king who addressed the young lions in these words, first giving them his benediction—the only thing he cared to bestow, as he judiciously guarded his treasures—“Children, I yield you my crown for a few days; please the people, if you can, but do not fail to report progress.” Then turning to the court, he said in a voice of thunder, “Obey my son, he has my instructions!”

As soon as the heir was seated on the throne, he was supported by a band of young, ardent, ambitious followers, whose pretentious doctrines led to the dismissal of the ancient counsellors of the crown. Each one desired to sell his advice, so that the number of places fell far short of the number of place-hunters. Many were turned back, fired with hatred and jealousy which they poured forth to the masses in eloquent harangues, stirring up the mud of popular corruption. Tumults arose; schemes for the destruction of the young tyrant were everywhere secretly discussed; and the youthful sovereign was privately informed that his power was built over a mine of political petroleum and social nitro-glycerine. Alarmed, he at last sought the counsel of his father who, cunning old rogue, was busy stirring up the slough of popular disorder and discontent. The people clamoured for the reinstatement of the venerable Cosmopolite, who, yielding to the pressure, again {179} received the sceptre from the hands of his son who was thus completely outwitted by his crafty parent. The worthy king, moved no doubt by parental love, determined to rid himself of his dutiful heir by sending him on a foreign mission. If men have their Eastern question to settle, the lions also find matters no less pressing to draw their attention to Europe, where their names, their position, and habits of conquest, have so long been usurped. Besides, by instituting international complications, the Cosmopolite succeeded in engaging the attention of his people, and securing the tranquillity of the State. Accordingly, the heir-apparent, accompanied by a Tiger in ordinary, was sent to Paris on a diplomatic mission.

We subjoin the official despatches of the prince and his secretary.

FIRST DESPATCH.

“SIRE,—As soon as your august son had crossed the Atlas Mountains, he was warmly received by a discharge of loaded muskets presented by the French outposts. We at once understood this to be a graceful mark of the homage due to rank. The government officials hastened to secure him, and even placed at his disposal a carriage decked with bars of solid iron. The prince was constrained to admire the conveyance as one of the triumphs of modern civilisation. We were fed with viands the most delicate, and so far, can only speak in praise of the manners of France. My master and your slave were conveyed on board ship and taken to Paris, where we were lodged, at the expense of the state, in a delicious abode called the King’s Garden. The people flocked to see us in such crowds that our staff of men attendants had to put up strong iron rails to protect our royal master from the vulgar throng. Our arrival was most fortunate, as we found an unusually large gathering of ambassadors from the animals of all nations collected in the garden. In a neighbouring palace I perceived Prince Beanokoff, a white Bear from the other side of the ocean, who had visited Paris on behalf of his government, and who informed me that we were the dupes of France, that the lions of Paris dreading the result of our embassy had shut us up; made us prisoners!

“ ‘How can we find these so-called lions of Paris,’ I inquired—Your Majesty will appreciate the action I have taken, in order to uphold your high reputation for boldness and fair dealing—This Bear, seeming to divine my thoughts, replied, that ‘Parisian lions dwell in regions where asphalt forms the pavement; where the choicest veneers and {180} varnishes of civilisation are produced, and guarded by spirits called the municipal authorities. Go straight on, and when you reach the quarter St. Georges, you will find them abounding.’

“ ‘You ought to congratulate yourself, Prince Beanokoff, to find that your name and northern characteristics are not burlesqued in this capital.’

“ ‘Pardon me, the Beanokoffs are no more exempt from the evil than are the lions of Leona.’

“ ‘Dear Prince Beanokoff, what possible advantage can man derive from imitating our attributes?’

“ ‘Ah! you have a great deal to learn. Why, look around at the pictorial representations of all sorts of animals that figure on the scutcheons of the nobility. There you will find that the proudest families claim us as their ancestors.’

“Wishing to make myself fully acquainted with the policy of the north, I said to him, ‘I suppose, my dear Prince, you have already represented the matter in a proper light to your government?’

“ ‘The Bears’ cabinet is above dealing with such drivelling questions. They are more suited to the capacity of the lower animals, to Lions!’

“ ‘Do you pretend, old iceberg, to ignore the fact that my master is the king of beasts?’

“The barbarian remained silent and looked so insulting that with one bound I broke the bars of my prison, his Highness, your son, followed my example, and I was about to avenge the insult when the Prince judiciously interfered, saying, ‘We must for the present avoid conflict with the northern powers, our mission is yet unfulfilled.’

“As this occurred during the night, under cover of darkness, we made our way into the Boulevards, where at day-break we heard the passing workmen exclaim, ‘Oh, what heads! would any one believe they were not real animals?’ ”

SECOND DESPATCH.

_Prince Leo in Paris during the carnival, His Highness’s opinion of what he saw._

“Your son, with his usual discernment, perceived that we had gained our liberty just as the carnival was at its height, and thus might come and go without danger. We felt excessively embarrassed, not knowing the manners, the usages, or the language of the people. Our anxiety was relieved in the following manner:— {181}

“Interrupted by severe cold.”

_Prince Leo’s first letter to his father, the King._