The American (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1907)/Chapter 1
THE AMERICAN
I
On a brilliant day in May, of the year 1868, a gentleman was reclining at his ease on the great circular divan which at that period occupied the centre of the Salon Carré, in the Museum of the Louvre. This commodious ottoman has since been removed, to the extreme regret of all weak-kneed lovers of the fine arts; but our visitor had taken serene possession of its softest spot, and, with his head thrown back and his legs outstretched, was staring at Murillo's beautiful moon-borne Madonna in deep enjoyment of his posture. He had removed his hat and flung down beside him a little red guide-book and an opera-glass. The day was warm; he was heated with walking, and he repeatedly, with vague weariness, passed his handkerchief over his forehead. And yet he was evidently not a man to whom fatigue was familiar; long, lean, and muscular, he suggested an intensity of unconscious resistance. His exertions on this particular day, however, had been of an unwonted sort, and he had often performed great physical feats that left him less jaded than his quiet stroll through the Louvre. He had looked out all the pictures to which an asterisk was affixed in those formidable pages of fine print in his Bädeker; his attention had been strained and his eyes dazzled; he had sat down with an æsthetic headache. He had looked, moreover, not only at all the pictures, but at all the copies that were going forward around them in the hands of those innumerable young women in long aprons, on high stools, who devote themselves, in France, to the reproduction of masterpieces; and, if the truth must be told, he had often admired the copy much more than the original. His physiognomy would have sufficiently indicated that he was a shrewd and capable person, and in truth he had often sat up all night over a bristling bundle of accounts and heard the cock crow without a yawn. But Raphael and Titian and Rubens were a new kind of arithmetic, and they made him for the first time in his life wonder at his vaguenesses.
An observer with anything of an eye for local types would have had no difficulty in referring this candid connoisseur to the scene of his origin, and indeed such an observer might have made an ironic point of the almost ideal completeness with which he filled out the mould of race. The gentleman on the divan was the superlative American; to which affirmation of character he was partly helped by the general easy magnificence of his manhood. He appeared to possess that kind of health and strength which, when found in perfection, are the most impressive—the physical tone which the owner does nothing to "keep up". If he was a muscular Christian it was quite without doctrine. If it was necessary to walk to a remote spot he walked, but he had never known himself to "exercise." He had no theory with regard to cold bathing or the use of Indian clubs; he was neither an oarsman, a rifleman nor a fencer—he had never had time for these amusements—and he was quite unaware that the saddle is recommended for certain forms of indigestion. He was by inclination a temperate man; but he had supped the night before his visit to the Louvre at the Café Anglais—some one had told him it was an experience not to be omitted—and he had slept none the less the sleep of the just. His usual attitude and carriage had a liberal looseness, but when, under a special inspiration, he straightened himself he looked a grenadier on parade. He had never tasted tobacco. He had been assured—such things are said—that cigars are excellent for the health, and he was quite capable of believing it; but he would no more have thought of "taking" one than of taking a dose of medicine. His complexion was brown and the arch of his nose bold and well-marked. His eye was of a clear, cold grey, and save for the abundant droop of his moustache he spoke, as to cheek and chin, of the joy of the matutinal steel. He had the flat jaw and the firm, dry neck which are frequent in the American type; but the betrayal of native conditions is a matter of expression even more than of feature, and it was in this respect that our traveller's countenance was supremely eloquent. The observer we have been supposing might, however, perfectly have measured its expressiveness and yet have been at a loss for names and terms to fit it. It had that paucity of detail which is yet not emptiness, that blankness which is not simplicity, that look of being committed to nothing in particular, of standing in a posture of general hospitality to the chances of life, of being very much at one's own disposal, characteristic of American faces of the clear strain. It was the eye, in this case, that chiefly told the story; an eye in which the unacquainted and the expert were singularly blended. It was full of contradictory suggestions; and though it was by no means the glowing orb of a hero of romance you could find in it almost anything you looked for. Frigid and yet friendly, frank yet cautious, shrewd yet credulous, positive yet sceptical, confident yet shy, extremely intelligent and extremely good-humoured, there was something vaguely defiant in its concessions and something profoundly reassuring in its reserve. The wide yet partly folded wings of this gentleman's moustache, with the two premature wrinkles in the cheek above it, and the fashion of his garments, in which an exposed shirt-front and a blue satin necktie of too light a shade played perhaps an obtrusive part, completed the elements of his identity. We have approached him perhaps at a not especially favourable moment; he is by no means sitting for his portrait. But listless as he lounges there, rather baffled on the æsthetic question and guilty of the damning fault (as we have lately discovered it to be) of confounding the aspect of the artist with that of his work (for he admires the squinting Madonna of the young lady with the hair that somehow also advertises "art", because he thinks the young lady herself uncommonly taking), he is a sufficiently promising acquaintance. Decision, salubrity, jocosity, prosperity, seem to hover within his call; he is evidently a man of business, but the term appears to confess, for his particular benefit, to undefined and mysterious boundaries which invite the imagination to bestir itself.
As the little copyist proceeded with her task, her attention addressed to her admirer, from time to time, for reciprocity, one of its blankest, though not of its briefest, missives. The working-out of her scheme appeared to call, in her view, for a great deal of vivid by-play, a great standing off with folded arms and head dropping from side to side, stroking of a dimpled chin with a dimpled hand, sighing and frowning and patting of the foot, fumbling in disordered tresses for wandering hair-pins. These motions were accompanied by a far-straying glance, which tripped up, occasionally, as it were, on the tall arrested gentleman. At last he rose abruptly and, putting on his hat as if for emphasis of an austere intention, approached the young lady. He placed himself before her picture and looked at it for a time during which she pretended to be quite unconscious of his presence. Then, invoking her intelligence with the single word that constituted the strength of his French vocabulary, and holding up one finger in a manner that appeared to him to illuminate his meaning, "Combien?" he abruptly demanded.
The artist stared a moment, gave a small pout, shrugged her shoulders, put down her palette and brushes and stood rubbing her hands.
"How much? said our friend in English. "Combien?"
"Monsieur wishes to buy it?" she asked in French.
"Very pretty. Splendide. Combien?" repeated the American.
"It pleases monsieur, my little picture? It's a very beautiful subject," said the young lady.
"The Madonna, yes; I'm not a real Catholic, but I want to buy it. Combien? Figure it right there." And he took a pencil from his pocket and showed her the fly-leaf of his guide-book. She stood looking at him and scratching her chin with the pencil. "Is n't it for sale?" he asked. And as she still stood reflecting, probing him with eyes which, in spite of her desire to treat this avidity of patronage as a very old story, added to her flush of incredulity, he was afraid he had offended her. She was simply trying to look indifferent, wondering how far she might go. "I have n't made a mistake—pas insulté, no?" her interlocutor continued. "Don't you understand a little English?"
The young lady's aptitude for playing a part at short notice was remarkable. She fixed him with all her conscious perception and asked him if he spoke no French. Then "Donnez!" she said briefly, and took the open guide-book. In the upper corner of the fly-leaf she traced a number in a minute and extremely neat hand. On which she handed back the book and resumed her palette.
Our friend read the number: "2000 francs." He said nothing for a time, but stood looking at the picture while the copyist began actively to dabble with her paint. "For a copy, is n't that a good deal?" he inquired at last. "Pas beaucoup?"
She raised her eyes from her palette, scanned him from head to foot, and alighted with admirable sagacity upon exactly the right answer. "Yes, it's a good deal. But my copy is extremely soigné. That's its value."
The gentleman in whom we are interested understood no French, but I have said he was intelligent, and here is a good chance to prove it. He apprehended, by a natural instinct, the meaning of the young woman's phrase, and it gratified him to find her so honest. Beauty, therefore talent, rectitude; she combined everything! "But you must finish it," he said. "Finish, you know;" and he pointed to the unpainted hand of the figure.
"Oh, it shall be finished in perfection—in the perfection of perfections!" cried mademoiselle; and to confirm her promise she deposited a rosy blotch in the middle of the Madonna's cheek.
But the American frowned. "Ah, too red, too red!" he objected. "Her complexion," pointing to the Murillo, "is more delicate."
"Delicate? Oh it shall be delicate, monsieur; delicate as Sèvres biscuit. I'm going to tone that down; I promise you it shall have a surface! And where will you allow us to send it to you? Your address."
"My address? Oh yes!" And the gentleman drew a card from his pocket-book and wrote something on it. Then hesitating a moment: "If I don't like it when it is finished, you know, I shall not be obliged to pay for it."
The young lady seemed as good a guesser as himself. "Oh, I'm very sure monsieur's not capricious!"
"Capricious?" And at this monsieur began to laugh. "Oh no, I'm not capricious. I'm very faithful. I'm very constant. Comprenez?"
"Monsieur's constant; I understand perfectly. It's not the case of all the world. To recompense you, you shall have your picture on the first possible day; next week—as soon as it's dry. I'll take the card of monsieur." And she took it and read his name: "Christopher Newman." Then she tried to repeat it aloud and laughed at her bad accent. "Your English names are not commodes to say!"
"Well, mine's partly celebrated," said Mr. Newman, laughing too. "Did you never hear of Christopher Columbus?"
"Bien sûr! He first showed Americans the way to Europe; a very great man. And is he your patron?"
"My patron?"
"Your patron saint, such as we all have."
"Oh, exactly; my parents named me after him."
"Monsieur is American then too?"
"Does n't it stick right out?" monsieur enquired.
"And you mean to carry my dear little picture away over there?" She explained her phrase with a gesture.
"Oh, I mean to buy a great many pictures—beaucoup, beaucoup" said Christopher Newman.
"The honour's not less for me," the young lady answered, "for I'm sure monsieur has a great deal of taste."
"But you must give me your card," Newman went on; "your card, you know."
The young lady looked severe an instant. "My father will wait on you."
But this time Mr. Newman's powers of divination were at fault. "Your card, your address," he simply repeated.
"My address?" said mademoiselle. Then, with a little shrug: "Happily for you, you're a stranger—of a distinction qui se voit. It's the first time I ever gave my card to a gentleman." And, taking from her pocket a well-worn flat little wallet, she extracted from it a small glazed visiting-card and presented the latter to her client. It was neatly inscribed in pencil, with a great many flourishes, "Mlle. Noémie Nioche." But Mr. Newman, unlike his companion, read the name with perfect gravity; all French names to him were equally incommodes.
"And precisely—how it happens!—here's my father; he has come to escort me home," said Mademoiselle Noémie. "He speaks English beautifully. He 'll arrange with you." And she turned to welcome a little old gentleman who came shuffling up and peering over his glasses at Newman.
M. Nioche wore a glossy wig, of an unnatural colour, which overhung his little meek, white, vacant face, leaving it hardly more expressive than the unfeatured block upon which these articles are displayed in the barber's window. He was an exquisite image of shabby gentility. His scant, ill-made coat, desperately brushed, his darned gloves, his highly polished boots, his rusty, shapely hat, told the story of a person who had "had losses" and who clung to the spirit of nice habits even though the letter had been hopelessly effaced. Among other things M. Nioche had lost courage. Adversity had not only deprived him of means, it had deprived him of confidence—so frightened him that he was going through his remnant of life on tiptoe, lest he should wake up afresh the hostile fates. If this strange gentleman should be saying anything improper to his daughter M. Nioche would entreat him huskily, as a particular favour, to forbear; but he would admit at the same time that he was very presumptuous to ask for particular favours.
"Monsieur has bought my picture," said Mademoiselle Noémie. "When it's finished you'll carry it to him in a cab."
"In a cab!" cried M. Nioche; and he stared, in a bewildered way, as if he had seen the sun rising at midnight.
"Are you the young lady's father?" said Newman. "I think she said you speak English."
"Spick English—yes." The old man slowly rubbed his hands. "I'll bring it in a cab."
"Say something then," cried his daughter. "Thank him a little—not too much."
"A little, my daughter, a little?" he murmured in distress. "How much?"
"Two thousand!" said Mademoiselle Noémie. "Don't make a fuss or he'll take back his word."
"Two thousand!" gasped the old man; and he began to fumble for his snuff-box. He looked at Newman from head to foot; he looked at his daughter and then at the picture. Take care you don't spoil it!" he cried almost sublimely.
"We must go home," said Mademoiselle Noémie. "This is a good day's work. Take care how you carry it!" And she began to put up her utensils.
"How can I thank you?" asked M. Nioche. "My English is far from sufficing."
"I wish I spoke French half so well," said man good-naturedly. "Your daughter too, you see, makes herself understood."
"Oh sir!" and M. Nioche looked over his spectacles with tearful eyes, nodding out of his depths of sadness. She has had an education—très-supérieure! Nothing was spared. Lessons in pastel at ten francs the lesson, lessons in oil at twelve francs. I did n't look at the francs then. She's a serious worker."
"Do I understand you to say that you've had a bad time?" asked Newman.
"A bad time? Oh sir, misfortunes—terrible!"
"Unsuccessful in business?"
"Very unsuccessful, sir."
"Oh, never fear; you'll get on your legs again," said Newman cheerily.
The old man cast his head to one side; he wore an expression of pain, as if this were an unfeeling jest: whereupon "What is it he says?" Mademoiselle Noémie demanded.
M. Nioche took a pinch of snuff. "He says I shall make my fortune again."
"Perhaps he'll help you. And what else?"
"He says thou hast a great deal of head."
"It's very possible. You believe it yourself, my father."
"Believe it, my daughter? With this evidence!" And the old man turned afresh, in staring, wondering homage, to the audacious daub on the easel.
"Ask him then if he 'd not like to learn French."
"To learn French?"
"To take lessons."
"To take lessons, my daughter? From thee?"
"From thee."
"From me, my child? How should I give lessons?"
"Pas de raisons! Ask him immediately!" said Mademoiselle Noémie with soft shortness.
M. Nioche stood aghast, but under his daughter's eye he collected his wits and, doing his best to assume an agreeable smile, executed her commands. "Would it please you to receive instruction in our beautiful language?" he brought out with an appealing quaver.
"To study French?" Newman was rather struck.
M. Nioche pressed his finger-tips together and slowly raised his shoulders. "A little practice in conversation!"
"Practice, conversation—that's it!" murmured Mademoiselle Noémie, who had caught the words. "The conversation of the best society."
"Our French conversation is rather famous, you know," M. Nioche ventured to continue. "It's the genius of our nation."
"But—except for your nation—is n't it almost impossible?" asked Newman very simply.
"Not to a man of esprit like monsieur, an admirer of beauty in every form!" And M. Nioche cast a significant glance at his daughter's Madonna.
"I can't fancy myself reeling off fluent French!" Newman protested. "And yet I suppose the more things, the more names of things, a man knows, the better he can get round."
"Monsieur expresses that very happily. The better he can get round. Hélas, out!
"I suppose it would help me a great deal, knocking about Paris, to be able to try at least to talk."
"Ah, there are so many things monsieur must want to say: remarkable things, and proportionately difficult."
"Everything I want to say is proportionately difficult. But you're in the habit of giving lessons?"
Poor M. Nioche was embarrassed; he smiled more appealingly. "I'm not a regular professor," he admitted. "I can't pourtant tell him I've a diploma," he said to his daughter.
"Tell him it's a very exceptional chance," answered mademoiselle; an homme du monde—one perfect gentleman conversing with another. Remember what you are. Remember what you have been."
"A teacher of languages in neither case! Much more dans le temps and much less to-day! And if he asks the price of the lessons?"
"He won't ask it," said the girl.
"What he pleases, I may say?"
"Never! That's bad style."
"But if he wants to know?"
Mademoiselle Noémie had put on her bonnet and was tying the ribbons. She smoothed them out, her shell-like little chin thrust forward. "Ten francs," she said quickly.
"Oh my daughter! I shall never dare."
"Don't dare then! He won't ask till the end of the lessons, and you 'll let me make out the bill."
M. Nioche turned to the confiding foreigner again and stood rubbing his hands with his air of standing convicted of almost any counsel of despair. It never occurred to Newman to plead for a guarantee of his skill in imparting instruction; he supposed of course M. Nioche knew the language he so beautifully pronounced, and his brokenness of spring was quite the perfection of what the American, for vague reasons, had always associated with all elderly foreigners of the lesson-giving class. Newman had never reflected upon philological processes. His chief impression with regard to any mastery of those mysterious correlatives of his familiar English vocables which were current in this extraordinary city of Paris was that it would be simply a matter of calling sharply into play latent but dormant muscles and sinews. "How did you learn so much English?" he asked of the old man.
"Oh, I could do things when I was young—before my miseries. I was wide awake then. My father was a great commerçant; he placed me for a year in a counting-house in England. Some of it stuck to me, but much I've forgotten!"
"How much French can I learn in about a month?"
"What does he say?" asked mademoiselle; and then when her father had explained: "He'll speak like an angel!"
But the native integrity which had been vainly exerted to secure M. Nioche's commercial prosperity flickered up again. "Dame, monsieur! he answered. "All I can teach you!" And then, recovering himself at a sign from his daughter: "I 'll wait upon you at your hotel."
"Oh yes, I should like to converse with elegance," Newman went on, giving his friends the benefit of any vagueness. "Hang me if I should ever have thought of it! I seemed to feel it too far off. But you've brought it quite near, and if you could catch on at all to our grand language—that of Shakespeare and Milton and Holy Writ—why should n't I catch on to yours?" His frank, friendly laugh drew the sting from the jest. "Only, if we're going to converse, you know, you must think of something cheerful to converse about."
"You're very good, sir; I'm overcome!" And M. Nioche threw up his hands. "But you've cheerfulness and happiness for two!"
"Oh no," said Newman more seriously. "You must be bright and lively; that's part of the bargain."
M. Nioche bowed with his hand on his heart. "Very well, sir; you've struck up a tune I could almost dance to!"
"Come and bring me my picture then; I'll pay you for it, and we'll talk about that. That will be a cheerful subject!"
Mademoiselle Noémie had collected her accessories and she gave the precious Madonna in charge to her father, who retreated backwards, out of sight, holding it at arm's length and reiterating his obeisances. The young lady gathered her mantle about her like a perfect Parisienne, and it was with the "Au revoir, monsieur!" of a perfect Parisienne that she took leave of her patron.