Younger men who in a year or two, or three or five, or ten or twenty, were bound to make their mark, and perhaps follow in the footsteps of the master; others as conspicuously singled out for failure and future mischance—for the hospital, the garret, the river, the Morgue, or, worse, the traveller’s bag, the road, or even the paternal counter.
Irresponsible boys, mere rapins, all laugh and chaff and mischief—blague et bagout Parisien; little lords of misrule—wits, butts, bullies; the idle and industrious apprentice, the good and the bad, the clean and the dirty (especially the latter)—all more or less animated by a certain esprit de corps, and working very happily and genially together, on the whole, and always willing to help each other with sincere artistic counsel if it were asked for seriously, though it was not always couched in terms very flattering to one’s self-love.
Before Little Billee became one of this band of brothers he had been working for three or four years in a London art school, drawing and painting from the life; he had also worked from the antique in the British Museum—so that he was no novice.
As he made his début at Carrel’s one Monday morning he felt somewhat shy and ill at ease. He had studied French most earnestly at home in England, and could read it pretty well, and even write it and speak it after a fashion; but he spoke it with much difficulty, and found studio French a different language altogether from the formal and polite language he had been at such pains to learn. Ollendorff does not cater for the quartier latin. Acting on Taffy’s advice—for Taffy had worked under Carrel—Little Billee handed sixty francs to the massier for his bienvenue—a lordly sum—and this liberality made a most favorable impression, and went far to destroy any little prejudice that might have been caused by the daintiness of his dress, the cleanliness of his person, and the politeness of his manners. A place was assigned to him, and an easel and a board; for he elected to stand at his work and begin with a chalk drawing. The model (a male) was posed, and work began in silence. Monday morning is always rather sulky everywhere (except perhaps in Judee). During the ten minutes’ rest three or four students came and looked at Little Billee’s beginnings, and saw at a glance that he thoroughly well knew what he was about, and respected him for it.
Nature had given him a singularly light hand—or rather two, for he was ambidextrous, and could use both with equal skill; and a few months’ practice at a London life school had quite cured him of that purposeless indecision of touch which often characterizes the prentice hand for years of apprenticeship, and remains with the amateur for life. The lightest and most careless of his pencil strokes had a precision that was inimitable, and a charm that specially belonged to him, and was easy to recognize at a glance. His touch on either canvas or paper was like Svengali’s on the keyboard—unique.
As the morning ripened little attempts at conversation were made—little breakings of the ice of silence. It was Lambert, a youth with a singularly facetious face, who first woke the stillness with the following uncalled-for remarks in English very badly pronounced:
“Av you seen my fahzere’s ole shoes?”
“I av not seen your fahzere’s ole shoes.”
Then, after a pause:
“Av you seen my fahzere’s ole ’at?”
“I av not seen your fahzere’s old ’at!”
Presently another said, “Je trouve qu’il a une jolie tête, l’Anglais.”
But I will put it all into English:
“I find that he has a pretty head—the Englishman! What say you, Barizel?”
“Yes; but why has he got eyes like brandy-balls, two a penny?”
“Because he’s an Englishman!”
“Yes; but why has he got a mouth like a guinea-pig, with two big teeth in front like the double blank at dominos?”
“Because he’s an Englishman!”
“Yes; but why has he got a back without any bend in it, as if he’d swallowed the Colonne Vendôme as far up as the battle of Austerlitz?”
“Because he’s an Englishman!”
And so on, till all the supposed characteristics of Little Billee’s outer man were exhausted. Then:
“Papelard!”
“What?”
“I should like to know if the Englishman says his prayers before going to bed.”
“Ask him.”
“Ask him yourself!”
“I should like to know if the Englishman has sisters; and if so, how old and how many and what sex.”
“Ask him.”
“Ask him yourself!”
“I should like to know the detailed and circumstantial history of the Englishman’s first love, and how he lost his innocence!”
“Ask him,” etc., etc., etc.
Little Billee, conscious that he was the object of conversation, grew somewhat nervous. Soon he was addressed directly.
“Dites donc, l’Anglais?”
“Kwaw?” said Little Billee.
“Avez-vous une sœur?”
“Wee.”
“Est-ce qu’elle vous ressemble?”
“Nong.”
“C’est bien dommage! Est-ce qu’elle dit ses prières, le soir, en se couchant?”
A fierce look came into Little Billee’s eyes and a redness to his cheeks, and this particular form of overture to friendship was abandoned.
Presently Lambert said, “Si nous mettions l’Anglais à l’échelle?”
Little Billee, who had been warned, knew what this ordeal meant.
They tied you to a ladder, and carried you in procession up and down the courtyard, and if you were nasty about it they put you under the pump.
During the next rest it was explained to him that he must submit to this indignity, and the ladder (which was used for reaching the high shelves round the studio) was got ready.
Little Billee smiled a singularly winning smile, and suffered himself to be bound with such good-humor that they voted it wasn’t amusing, and unbound him, and he escaped the ordeal by ladder.
Taffy had also escaped, but in another way. When they tried to seize him he took up the first rapin that came to hand, and, using him as a kind of club, he swung him about so
