The Hemingways knew Paris as they knew London, and they smoothed his path. In their drawing-room Peter met that dazzling inner circle of Parisian society which includes talent and genius as well as rank, beauty, and wealth. Then, Mrs. Hemingway having first seen to it that he met those whom she wished him to meet, Peter was permitted to meet those whom he himself wished to meet. He was introduced to two deceptively mild-mannered young Englishmen, first cousins named Checkleigh, students in one of the great ateliers, who were by way of being painters; and to a shock-headed young man from California, a sculptor8, named Stocks. The Englishmen were closely related to a large-toothed, very important Lady Somethingorother, high up in the diplomatic sphere, and the Californian possessed9 a truly formidable aunt. Hence the three young men appeared in fashionable circles at decent intervals10. Later, Peter learned to know their redoubtable11 relatives as "Rabbits" and "The Grampus," and he once saw a terrifyingly truthful12 portrait of "Rabbits" sketched13 on a skittish15 model's bare back, and a movingly realistic little figure of "The Grampus" modeled by her dutiful nephew in a moment of diabolical16 inspiration. It was explained to him that God, for some inscrutable purpose of his own, generally pleases himself by bestowing17 only the most limited human intelligence upon the wealthy relatives of poor but gifted artists; but that if properly approached, and at not too frequent intervals, they may be induced to loosen their tight purse-strings. Wherefore one must somehow manage to keep on good terms with them. Witness, Stocks said, his forgiving—nay, kindly18—attitude toward The Grampus; see how he went to her house and drank her loathly tea and ate her beastly little cakes, even though she regarded a promising19 sculptor as a sort of unpromising stone-cutter who couldn't hold down a steady job, and had vehemently20 urged him to go in for building and contracting in Sacramento, California. "And yet that woman has got about all the money there is in our family!" finished Stocks, bitterly.
"Rabbits takes you aside and talks to you heart to heart," said the younger Checkleigh, gloomily. The elder Checkleigh's face took on a look of martyrdom.
"We have Immortal21 Souls," said he, in a tone of anguish22 and affliction. "I ask you, as man to man: Is it our fault?"
It was these three Indians, then, who took Peter Champneys under their wing, helped him find the pleasantest rooms in the Quartier, helped him furnish them at about a third of what he would have paid if left to his own devices, and also helped him to shed his skin of a timid provincial23 by plunging24 him to the scalp in that bubbling cauldron in which seethes25 the creative brain of France. Serious and sad young men who were going to be poets; intense fellows who were going to rehabilitate26 the Drama, or write the Greatest Novel; illustrators, journalists, critics, painters, types in velvet27 coats, flowing ties, flowing locks, and astonishing hats, sculptors28, makers29 of exquisite30 bits of craftsmanship31, models, masters, singers of sorts, actors and actresses, sewing-girls, frightful32 old concièrges; students from the four corners of the earth driven hither by the four winds of heaven, came and went in the devil-may-care wake of Stocks and the Checkleighs and disported33 themselves before the reflective and appreciative34 eyes of Peter Champneys. These gay Bohemians laughed at him for what Stocks called his spinterishness, but ended by loving him as only youth can love a comrade.
In six months he knew the Quartier to the core. He met men who were utter blackguards, whose selfish, cold-blooded brutality35 filled him with loathing36; he met women with the soul of the cat. But the Quartier as a whole was sound-hearted; Peter himself was too sound-hearted not to know. He met Youth at work, his own kind of work. They were all going to do something great presently,—and presently many of them did. The very air he breathed stimulated37 him. Here were comrades, to whom, as to himself, art was the one supremely38 important thing in the universe. They, too, were climbers toward the purple heights.
Shy young men who work like mules39 are as thick as hops40 in any art center; but shy young men who are immensely talented, who have a genius for steady labor41, and who at the same time have not only the inclination42 but the opportunity to be generous, are not numerous anywhere.
Peter Champneys never talked about himself, made no parade, was so simple in his tastes that he spent very little upon himself, and while he could say "No" to impudence43, he had ever a quick, warm "Yes" for need. That he should be able to become an artist had been the top of his dream; that by a very little self-denial he could help others to remain artists, left him large-eyed at his own good fortune. He experienced the glowing happiness that only the generous can know.
On Sundays he went to see Emma Campbell, for whom he had found a little house on the summit of Montmartre, on the very top of the Butte. It had a hillside garden, with a dove-cote in it, and a little kiosk in which Emma liked to sit, with the cat Satan on her lap, and projeck at the strange world in which she found herself. She shared the house with a scene-painter and his wife, and as the scene-painter was an Englishman, Emma could talk to somebody and be understood. Emma's idea of happiness was leisure to sew squares of patchwork44 together for quilts. She had brought her cut-out quilt scraps45 with her, and she sat in the kiosk and sewed little pieces of colored calico together, while the big cat scampered46 about the garden, or lay and blinked at her, and all Paris lay spread out far below, the spires47 of Notre Dame48 showing as through a mist.
On Sundays she cooked for Peter,—old homely49 Riverton dishes,—and waited on him while he ate. Because she couldn't read, she looked forward to Peter's reading what she reverently50 called "de Book." Peter had been reading the Bible to old darkies all his life, and he accepted it as a matter of course that he should take the long climb, and give up a part of his Sundays, to save Emma Campbell from being disappointed now. Afterward51, Emma spoke52 of his mother, and of old, familiar things they both remembered. Then he went back to the Quartier feeling as refreshed and rested as if he'd had a swim in the river "over home."
At regular intervals he appeared at Mrs. Hemingway's, and kept up his acquaintance with her friends. When she told him to accept an invitation, he resignedly obeyed, looking, the elder of the Checkleigh boys told him, as if he were doing it for God's sake. He was beginning to speak French less villainously, and this made things easier for him. He could carry on a simple conversation, by going slowly; and he almost understood about half of what strangers said to him. He interested one or two fine ladies greatly, and they were extremely gracious to him. Artists—that is, young and unknown artists in the Quartier—are more or less pleasant to read about in the pages of Mürger and others, but they are too often beggarly and quite impossible persons in real life. But this young American who lived in the Quartier was at the same time on a footing of intimacy53 in the exclusive home of those so charming Hemingways, who were, one knew, of the grand monde. Was it true that the American painter was very wealthy? Yes? Ah, cièl! That droll54 young man was then amusing himself by living in the Quartier? But what an original! His family approved? He was an orphan55? With no relations save that old uncle whose heir he was? Ah, mon Dieu! That touched one's heart! One must try to be very pleasant to that so lonely young man! And that so lonely young man was extended mead56 and balm in the shape of invitations to very smart affairs. To some of which he found, at the last minute, he couldn't go, for the simple and cogent57 reason that Checkleigh or Stocks had appropriated his dress suit.
"It's infernally unlucky, Rabbits having an affair on to-night. But you know how it is, Champ—she'd never forgive me if I didn't show up. Big-wigs from home, and all that, and she feels it's her duty to make me show 'em I haven't become an Apache. And my togs are out at interest—one has to pay one's rent sometimes, you understand," explained Checkleigh, who was dressing58 before Peter's mirror. "You don't have to care: you aren't compelled to keep in her good graces!"
"Oh, all right. I don't mind. I only accepted to please Mrs. Hemingway."
"Mrs. Hemingway is my very good friend. At the first opportunity I shall explain to her. She can readily understand that
"One may go without relatives, cousins, and aunts—
But civilized59 man cannot go without pants.
I wish you hadn't such deucedly long legs, Champ. Regular hop-poles!" grumbled60 Checkleigh, ungratefully.
"They are poor things, but mine own," said Peter, mildly. "You will find a five-franc piece in the waistcoat pocket, Checkleigh, if you happen to want it. I keep it there for cab fare."
"If I happen to want it!" shrieked61 Checkleigh. "Oh, bloated plutocrat, purse-proud millionaire, I always happen to want it!" He waved an eloquent62 hand to the circumambient air. "He has five-franc pieces in his waistcoat pocket—and no Rabbits in his family!" cried Checkleigh. "Now, have you a presentable pair of gloves, Croesus?—Oh, damn your legs, Champneys! Look at these beastly breeches of yours, will you? I've had to turn 'em up until you'd fancy I was wearing cuffs63 on the ankles, and still they're too long!"
"You should have cut 'em off a bit—then you wouldn't look as though you were poulticing your shins. And they'd fit me, too," commented Stocks, who had sauntered in.
Checkleigh looked at Peter's watch—his own was "out at interest" along with his dress suit—and shook his head dolefully.
"If you'd just suggested it sooner, I could have done it—now it's too late." he lamented64. "Your progeny65 will probably resemble herons, Champneys, and serve 'em right!—Are those new gloves? I am a credit to Rabbits!" And he rushed off.
"What a friend we have in Champ-neys,
All his gloves and pa-ants to wear!"
Stocks sang in a voice like the scraping of a mattock over flint; one saw that he had been piously66 raised. Then he hooked his arm in Peter's and the two went forth67 to join the joyous68 hordes69 surging up the Boul' Miche, and to dine in their favorite restaurant, where the waiters were one's good friends, and Madame the proprietress addressed her Bohemians as "mes enfants." Having dined, one joined one's brother workers who waged the battle of Art with jaws70 and gestures. Bawling71 out the slang of the studios, they grimaced72, sneered73, shrugged74, praised, demolished75. Nothing was sacred to these young savages77 but the joy of the present. They had no past, and the future hadn't arrived. They lived in the moment, worked, laughed, loved, and, when they could, dined. When one had a handful of silver, how gay the world was! How one wished to pat it on the back and invite it to come and be merry with one!
In the full stream of this turbulent tide, behold78 Peter Champneys; with a lock of his black hair falling across his forehead; his head cocked sidewise; and his big nose and clear golden eyes giving him the aspect of a benevolent79 hawk80, like, say, Horus, Hawk of the Sun. Those golden eyes of his saw tolerantly as well as clearly. This quiet American worked like a fiend, yet had time to look on and laugh with you while you played. He was gravely gay at his best, but he didn't neglect the good things of his youth. And he had a genius for playing impromptu81 Providence83 when you were down on your luck and about all in. Maybe you hadn't dined for a couple of days, or maybe you were pretty nearly frozen in your room, as you had no fire; and you were wondering whether, after all, you weren't a fool to starve and freeze for art's sake, and whether, all things considered, life was worth living; and there'd be a gentle tap at your door, and Peter Champneys would stick his thin dark face in, smilingly. He'd tell you he'd been lonely all day, and would you, if you hadn't done so already, kindly come and dine with him? He spoke French with a South Carolina accent, in those days, but an archangel's voice could not then have sounded more dulcet84 in your ears than his. Presently, over your cigarettes, you found yourself telling him just how things were with you. Maybe you slept on a lounge in his studio that night, because it was warmer there. And next morning you could face life and work feeling that God's in his heaven, all's right with the world. That's what Peter Champneys meant to many a hard-pressed youngster.
With his immense capacity for work, at the end of a year Peter Champneys had made great strides. But he was troubled. Like Millet85, he couldn't take the ordered direction. He felt that he was merely marking time, that he wasn't on the right track. His robust87 and original talent demanded heartier88 food than was offered it. Reluctantly enough, Peter withdrew from the official studio to which he was attached, and went on his own. It was a momentous89 step.
One Sunday afternoon he said to Emma Campbell, seriously:
"You've never laid eyes on a goddess, Emma, have you? Or a nymph? Well, neither have I. And I can't paint what I don't know." He walked up and down the little graveled garden path. And he burst out: "That is not life. It is not truth. I don't want gods. I only see men! I don't want goddesses. I want women!"
Emma Campbell said in a scandalized voice:
"Dat ain't no kind o' way to talk! Leastwise," she compromised, "not on Sundays."
Peter burst out laughing. Emma wore her usual Sunday cashmere, with a snowy apron90 and head-handkerchief. Satan lay upon the small table beside her, in the attitude of a sphinx, his black, velvety91 paws stretched in front of him, his inscrutable eyes watching the restless young man. Peter paused, and his eyes narrowed. Then he snapped his fingers, as he had done when he was a little boy back in Riverton and something had pleased him.
"I've got it!" he shouted. "Emma, you're It!"
No one ever had a more patient model. She couldn't exackly understan' why Mist' Peter should want to paint a ole nigger like her, but if Peter Champneys had wanted to bury her alive in the ground, with only her head sticking out, Emma would have known it had to be all right, somehow. So she sat for weary hours, while Peter made rough sketches92, and tried out many theories, before he settled down to work in dead earnest.
And presently Emma saw herself as it were alive on a square of canvas, so alive that she was more than a bit afraid. She said it looked like her own ha'nt, and Emma wasn't partial to ha'nts. There she sat in her plain black dress and her plain white apron and head-handkerchief, and her gold hoop93 ear-rings. On the table beside her were the vegetables she was to prepare. She had forgotten work for the time being. Emma projecked, one hand resting idly on the table, the other on the great black cat in her lap. She looked at you, with the wistfully animal look of a negro woman, who is loving, patient, kind, long-suffering, imbued94 with a terrible patience, and of a sound, sly, earthy humor; and who at the same time is childishly credulous95, full of dark passions, and with the fires of savagery96 banked in her heart. There she sat, that sphinx that is Africa, who has seen the white races come, and who will probably see them go; you could almost sense the half-slumbrous brain of her throbbing97 under her head-handkerchief. She wasn't a mere86 colored woman; she was a symbol and a challenge. And her eyes that had seen so much and wept so much were as inscrutable as fate, as sphinx-like as the cat's who watched you from her knee. The whole picture breathed an amazingly bold and original power, and was so arrestingly vital that it gripped and held one. Down in one corner, painted with exquisite care and delicacy98, was a Red Admiral.
The Quartier came, squinted99 through the fingers, and praised and dispraised, after its wont100. The Symbolists sneered and told Peter to his teeth he was a Philistine101; they said you can't boot-lick Nature: you've got to bully102 her, demand her soul, make her give you her Sign! Quieter men came and studied Emma Campbell and her cat, and clapped Peter on the back; the more exuberant103 Latins kissed him, noisy, hearty104, hairy kisses on both cheeks. Undoubtedly105, it would be accepted, they said!
It was, and hung conspicuously106. There were always small groups before it, for it created something like the uproar107 that Manet's "Olympia" had raised in its time. Peter learned from one critic that his technique was magnificent, his picture a masterpiece of psychology108 and of portraiture109, and that if he kept on he'd soon be one of the Immortals110. He learned from another that while he undoubtedly had technique, his posing was commonplace, his subject banal111, his imagination hopelessly bourgeois112; that he was a painter of the ugly and the ordinary, without inspiration or imagination; that the one pretty and delicate note in the whole canvas was the butterfly in the lower left-hand corner, and that that was obviously reminiscent of Whistler, who on a time had used a butterfly signature! But on the whole the criticisms were highly favorable; it was admitted that a young painter of promise had arisen.
Peter Champneys went about his business, indifferent to praise or blame. He knew he was a way-faring man whose business it was to follow his own road, a road he had to hack113 out for himself; and somewhere on the horizon were the purple heights.
The unbounded delight, the disinterested114 pride of the Hemingways, couldn't have been greater had he been their son. Mrs. Hemingway gave a brilliant entertainment in his honor, and he was fêted and made much of. Young ladies who danced divinely found his stork-like hopping115 pleasing, and his stammering116 French delightful117. This charming Monsieur Champneys, you see, was not only invested with the glamour118 of art; he was the heir of an American millionaire! Ah, the dear young man!
The picture was sold to a Spanish nobleman, who said it reminded him of Velasquez's "?sop"; he was so delighted with the painter's power that he commissioned Peter to portray119 his own long, pale, melancholy120 visage. Whereupon the two Checkleighs and Stocks called loudly for a proper celebration, and Peter honored their clamorous121 demand. It was a memorable122 affair, graced by the Quartier's darlingest models, who had long since voted M'sieu Champnees a bon gar?on. A Spanish student, in a velvet coat and with long black hair, insisted upon charcoaling123 mustachios and imperial upon his host's countenance124, in honor of his countryman who had distinguished125 himself as a patron of art. Later, a laughing girl whose blue-black hair was banded Madonna-wise around a head considerably126 otherwise, washed it off with a table napkin dipped in wine. She sat on his knee to perform the operation, scanned his clean face with satisfaction, and taking him by the ears as by handles, kissed him gaily127. Then she went back to her own chèr ami, who wasn't in the least disturbed.
"It is like kissing thy maiden128 aunt, Jacques," she told him. "Now, with thee—" They looked at each other eloquently129, and Peter Champneys, whose eyes had followed the girl, smiled crookedly130. An unaccountable gloom descended131 upon him. All these lusty young men shouting and laughing around him, all these handsome, ardent132 young women, snatched what joy from life they could; they lived their hour, knowing how brief that hour must be. They ate to-day, starved to-morrow; but they were rich because they loved, because they laughed, because theirs was the passionate133 unforced comradeship, the intoxicating134 joy of youth. Peter Champneys, whose good luck was being celebrated135, looked at his penniless, hilarious136 comrades, and twisted a smile of desperate gaiety to his lips. He had never in his life felt more utterly137 alone.
The affair ended at six o'clock the next morning, in a last glad, mad romp82 up the Boul' Miche. Peter and Stocks waved good-by to the last revelers, looking somewhat jaded138 in the fresh morning air. The two young men, both rather tired, walked slowly. Venders in clacking sabots pushed their carts ahead of them, shouting their wares139. Crowds of working-people poured through the streets. At a little restaurant they knew, they had coffee and rolls. While they were drinking, a girl came in. Peter looked up and saw Denise.
His first thought was that she would have been lovely if she hadn't been so thin. Then he saw how shabby she was, and how neat. Nothing could have been more charming than her chestnut140 hair, or her blue eyes that had a look of innocence141, or her fair and transparent142 complexion143, though one could have wished she were rosier144. She did not look around with the quick, alert, bright glance of the Parisienne whom everything interests and amuses; she had the abstracted and sad air of a child who suffers, and whom suffering bewilders.
Stocks said, in a low voice, tinged145 with pity:
"L'amie de Dangeau."
Peter received that announcement with a shock of surprise and distaste. Dangeau was such an utter brute146! Handsome in his way, without conscience or pity, Dangeau would have eaten his mother's heart to satisfy his own hunger, or wiped his feet upon his father's beard. The gifted, intellectual, and rapacious147 savage76 seized whatever came near him that pleased his fancy or aroused his curiosity, extracted the pith, and tossed aside what no longer amused or served him. There was no generosity148 in him, only an insatiable and ferocious149 demand that life should give him more, always more! Peter, who both admired and detested150 him, was sorry for this gentle creature fallen into his remorseless claws. And he wondered, as decent men must, at the fatal fascination151 animals like Dangeau seem to possess for women.
He saw her occasionally after that, always alone. Plainly, things were not well with her. Her pale face grew paler and thinner; her dress shabbier. The look of bewilderment was now a look of pain. Her eyes were heavy, as if they wept too much. Peter watched her with a troubled heart. One day Henri, the gar?on, murmured confidentially152, as she left the café after a particularly slim meal:
"These thin little blondes, they do not last long. That one was like a rose when I first saw her. Pauvre enfant!" And he looked after her with a compassionate153 glance.
"She seems—different," said Peter. "It is not well with her?"
"Alas154, no! She is from the provinces, Monsieur, come to Paris to earn more. And so she wearied her ami. You know him, Monsieur; he is a restless man, quickly tiring—that sculptor! Also, he feared she would fall sick upon his hands—you see how frail155 she is, and he abhors156 all that is not robust." And Henri made an expressive157 gesture. He added: "She is of the sort that love, Monsieur; and, you understand, that is fatal!"
"And how does she manage now?" asked Peter.
Henri shrugged significantly. Peter drummed on the table and scowled158. A little girl, from the provinces! One understood now how she had fallen into Dangeau's hands, and how, inevitably159, he had tired, and tossed her aside like a wilted160 flower. And now she was facing slow starvation—Oh, damn!
Peter slipped some change into Henri's palm. "You are a man of sense, Henri. Also, I see that you have a good heart," said he. "Now we must see what we can do for this poor little Mademoiselle, you and I. You will place before her the best the house affords—I leave that to you. And when she protests you will say to her: 'Your venerable godfather has arranged for it, Mademoiselle. His orders are, that you come here, seat yourself, tap once with your forefinger161 upon the table,—and your orders will be obeyed.'"
"And if she questions further, Monsieur?"
"Explain that you obey orders, but do not know her godfather," said Peter, gravely.
"Trust me, Monsieur!" cried the delighted Henri. And from that moment the kindly fellow adored Peter Champneys.
The little game began the next day. Denise gave her tiny order; Henri came back with a loaded tray, whose savory162 contents he placed before her. Out of the corner of his eye Peter could see the girl's astonished face when Henri politely insisted that the meal was hers—that her venerable godfather had ordered it for her! She looked timidly and fearfully around; but nobody was paying the slightest attention to her, and after deftly163 arranging the dishes, Henri had whisked himself off. She waited for a few minutes; but Henri hadn't come back. And then, because she was almost famished164, she ate what had been given her. Peter felt his eyes blur165.
Henri came back to her presently with wine. He dusted the bottle lovingly, and filled her glass with a flourish. She looked up with a tremulous smile:
"My godfather's order, Henri?"
"Your venerable godfather's order, Mademoiselle," he replied sedately166. When she had finished her dinner, he glibly167, and with an expressionless countenance repeated Peter's instructions: she was to come in, seat herself, tap with her forefinger, and give her orders, which would be instantly obeyed! No, he did not know her godfather. Nor did Monsieur le patron. No, he might not even take the sous she offered him: all, all, had been arranged, Mademoiselle!
She hesitated. Then she called for pen and paper, and scribbled168 in violet ink:
MONSIEUR MY GODFATHER,
I see that the good God still permits miracles. You are one. Accept, then, a poor girl's thanks and prayers!
Thy godchild,
DENISE.
She gave this to Henri, who received it respectfully. Then she went out, feeling very much better and brighter because of a sadly needed dinner. She was bewildered, and excited; but she wasn't afraid. She accepted her miracle, which had come just in the nick of time, gratefully, with a childlike simplicity169. But she used her blue eyes, and one day they met Peter Champneys's, regarding her with a good and kind satisfaction; for indeed she looked much better and brighter, now that she was no longer half starved. Denise had encountered other eyes, men's eyes; but none had ever met hers with just such a look as she saw in these clear and golden ones. A flash of intuition came to her. Only one person in the world could have eyes like that—it must be, it was, he! And she watched him with an absorbed and breathless interest.
In these small restaurants of the Quartier one sits so close to one's neighbors, in a busy hour, that conversation isn't difficult; it is, rather, inevitable170.
"Monsieur," said the young girl, bravely and yet timidly, on an occasion when they almost touched elbows, "Monsieur,—is it you who have a god-daughter?"
"Mademoiselle," stammered171 Peter, who hadn't expected the question. "I do not know your godfather!" And then he turned red to his ears.
Her face broke into a swift and flashing smile. She looked so like a happy child that Peter had to smile back at her, and presently they were chatting like old acquaintances. After that they always managed to dine together.
They found each other delightful. That gloomy sense of loneliness which had oppressed Peter vanished in the girl's presence. As for Denise, no one had ever been so kind, so gentle, so generous to her as this wonderful Monsieur Champneys. She grew quite beautiful; her eyes were a child's eyes, her face like one of those little sweet pinkish-white roses one sees in old-fashioned gardens.
She had no relations; neither had Peter. And so he took Denise into his life, just as he had once taken a lost kitten out of the dusk on the Riverton Road: there really was nothing else for him to do! He had for her something of the same whimsical and compassionate affection that had made him share his glass of milk with the little cat. She belonged to him; there was nobody else.
She was rather a silent creature, Denise. She had none of that Latin vivacity172 which wearies the listener, but her love for him showed itself in a thousand gracious ways, in innumerable small services, in loving looks. Just to touch him was a never-failing joy to her. She delighted to stroke his face, to trace with her small fingers the outline of his features. "That is the pattern on the inside of my heart," she told him. She had a quick, light tread, pleasant to listen to, and her rare and lovely laughter was always a delicious surprise, as if one heard an unexpected chime of little bells.
Her housewifely ways, her pretty anxiety about spending money, amused him tenderly. When she could perform some small service for him, she hummed little hymns173 to the Virgin174. Her ministrations extended to Stocks and the Checkleighs, whose shirts she mended so expertly that they didn't have to borrow so many of Peter's. She was so happy that Peter Champneys grew happy watching her. It hadn't seemed possible to Denise that anybody like him could exist; yet here he was, and she belonged to him!
Nobody had ever loved Peter Champneys in quite the same way. She had so real and true a genius for loving that she exhaled175 affection as a flower exhales176 perfume. Loving was an instinct with Denise. She would steal to his side, slip her arm around his neck, kiss him on the eyes—"thy beautiful eyes, Pierre!"—and cuddle her cheek against his, with so exquisite a tenderness in touch and look that the young man's kind heart melted in his breast. He couldn't speak. He could only gather her close, pressing his black head against her soft young bosom177.
Her cruel experience with Dangeau was not forgotten; but that had been capture by force, and she remembered it as a black background against which the bright colors of this present happiness showed with a heavenlier radiance. Peter himself didn't guess how wholly his little comrade loved him, though he did realize her utter selflessness. She never asked him troublesome questions, never annoyed him with irritating jealousy178, made no demands upon him. Was he not himself? Very well, then: did not that suffice? Denise didn't think: she felt. She had the exquisite wisdom of the heart, and in her small hands the flower of Peter Champneys's youth opened and blossomed. He was young, he was loved, he was busy. Oh, but it was a good world to be alive in! He whistled while he worked. And how he worked! To this period belong those angelic heads, chestnut-haired, wistfully smiling, with blue eyes that look deep into one's heart. The airy butterfly that signs these canvases is not so much a symbol as a prescience.
When was it he first noticed that for all his love and care he wasn't going to be able to keep Denise? How did he learn that the great last lover was wooing her away? She was not less happy. A deep and still joy radiated from her, her eyes had the clear and cloudless happiness of a child's. But he observed that on their pleasant excursions into the country she tired quickly. Her little light feet didn't run any more. She preferred to sit cuddled against his side, holding his hand in both hers, her head pressed against his shoulder. She didn't talk, but then, he was used to her silence; that was one of her sweetest charms. Her cheek grew thinner, but the rose in it deepened. Then the pretty dresses he loved to lavish179 upon her began to hang loosely upon her little body.
It was a frightened young man who called in doctors and specialists. But, as Henri had once told him, they do not last long, these frail blondes. Also, she was of the sort that loves—and that, you understand, is fatal!
Stocks, who had made a great pet of Peter's pretty sweetheart, blubbered when he learned the truth, and the younger Checkleigh, who delighted to sketch14 her, left off because his hand shook so, and he couldn't see clearly. The Spanish student in the velvet coat, who could sing lustily to a guitar, came and sang for her, not the ribald songs the Quartier heard from him, but the beautiful and soft love songs he had heard as a child in Andalusia—how love is an immortal rose one carries through the gates of the grave into the gates of paradise. And the Quartier, which knows so much sorrow as well as so much joy, came with its gayest gossip to make her smile. Peter himself lived in a sort of tormented181 daze182.—It was Denise, his little Denise, who was going!
Denise herself was the calmest and cheerfulest of them all. Her high destiny had been to love Peter Champneys, and she had fulfilled it. The good, the kind God had given her that which in her estimation outweighed183 everything else. She had lived, she had loved. Now she could go, and go content.
"It is better so," she told him, with that piercing good sense of the French which is like a spiritual insight. "Very dear one, suppose I had been called upon to let thee go: how could I have endured that?" And she added, pressing his fingers, "Do not grieve, my adored Pierre. Observe that I am but a poor little one to whom in thy goodness of heart thou hast been kind: but thou art all my life—all of me, Pierre."
He put his head against her side, and she stroked it, whispering,
"I had but a little while to stay, beloved. Because of thee, that stay has been happy—oh, very, very happy!"
"You have given me all I ever had of youth and love," said Peter.
"Ah, but I am glad!" she said na?vely. "Because of that, I think you must remember!" She looked at him with her blue eyes suddenly full of tears. "It is only when I think you may forget that I am afraid, it is then as if the dark pressed upon me," she said in a whisper sharp with pain. "I lie still and dream how great you will become, how much beloved—for who could fail to love you, Pierre? And I am glad. It rests my heart, which is all yours. But when I begin to remember how I have been but a little, little part of your life, who have been all of mine, when I think you may forget, then I am afraid, I am afraid!" And she looked at him like a frightened child who is being left alone to go to sleep in the dark.
Peter picked her up, wrapped in the bedquilt, and held her in his arms. She was very light. It was as if he held a little ghost. She shook her bright hair over his shoulders and breast, and he hid his quivering face in it, as in a veil. Presently, in a soft voice:
"Godfather!"
"Yes, my little sweetheart."
"Very dear and precious godfather,—a long, long time from now, when She comes, She whom you will love as I love you, tell her about me."
"Denise, Denise!" cried poor Peter, straining her to him.
"Tell her I had blue eyes, and a fair face, and bright, bright hair, Godfather. She will like to know. Say, 'Her whole wisdom lay in loving me with all her heart—that poor Denise!' Then tell her that she cannot love you more, my Pierre,—but that in my grave I shall despise her if she dares to love you less."
"I—Oh, my God!" strangled Peter, and he felt as if his heart were being wrenched184 out of his breast. He was in his twenties, and the girl in his arms was all he knew of love.
Some six weeks later Denise died as quietly as she had lived, her small cold hands clinging to Peter Champneys's, her blue eyes with their untroubled, loving gaze fixed185 upon his face. When that beloved face faded from her the world itself had faded from Denise.
He hadn't dreamed one could suffer as he was called upon to suffer then. The going of little Denise seemed to have torn away a living and quivering part of his spirit. She had loved him absolutely, and Peter couldn't forget that. His gratitude186 was an anguish. It is not the duration but the depths of an experience which makes its ineffaceable impression upon the heart.
Mrs. Hemingway saw his changed looks with concern. If she and her husband suspected anything, they did not torment180 him with questions; they didn't even appear to notice that he was silent and abstracted.
"What on earth is the matter with the boy?" worried Mrs. Hemingway. "John, do you think it's a—"
"Petticoat? What else should it be?"
"I can't bear to think of Peter getting himself into some sort of scrape with possibly some miserable187 woman—who will prey188 upon him," murmured Mrs. Hemingway.
"Peter's not the sort that falls for adventuresses. He might fall in love with some girl, and be cut up if she didn't reciprocate189. That's what's the matter with him now, if I'm not mistaken."
Hemingway took Peter fishing with him. It is a pleasant place, the Seine near Poissy. Hemingway let Peter sit in a boat all day, and didn't seem to observe that the line wasn't once drawn190 in. The river was rippling191, the sky bright blue, the wind sweet. All around them were other boats, full of people who appeared to be happy. And Hemingway's silent companionship was strong and kind and serene192. Insensibly Peter reacted to his surroundings, to the influence of the shining day. When they were returning to Paris that evening, he looked at his big compatriot gratefully. Then he told him. Hemingway listened in silence. Then:
"I'm damned glad she had you," said he, and polished his eyeglasses, and put his hand on Peter's shoulder with a consoling and sympathetic touch. Hemingway understood. He was that sort.
Youth departs, love perishes, faith faints; but that we may never be left hopeless, work remains193 and saves us. Peter's work came to his succor194. Just at this crucial time his Eminence195 the Austrian Cardinal196 appeared, and Peter hadn't time to mope.
The cardinal had seen the picture of Emma Campbell and her cat. He had seen an enchanting197 sketch of the Spanish student in the velvet coat, recently purchased by a friend of his. And now his own portrait must be painted. He was so great a cardinal, of so striking a personality, that his own noble family had an immense pride in him, and the Vatican, along with certain great temporal powers, took him very seriously. So the painting of the cardinal's portrait wouldn't be a light undertaking198, to be given at random199. This and that great painter was urged upon him. But the astonishing portrait of that old colored woman and her cat decided200 his Eminence, who had a will of his own. Here was his artist! Also, he insisted upon the cat.
The anticlerical press of Paris was insisting that the cardinal's stay in the French capital was of sinister201 import. The cardinal smiled, and Peter Champneys besought202 his gods to let him get that smile on canvas. His Eminence was an ideal sitter. He spoke English beautifully, and it pleased him to converse203 with the lanky204 young American painter in his mother tongue. He felt drawn to the young man, and when the cardinal liked one, he was irresistible205. Peter was so fascinated by this brilliant and versatile206 aristocrat207, so deeply interested in the psychology of a great Roman prelate, a prince of the Church, that he forgot everything except that he was a creative artist—and a great sitter, a man worthy208 of his best, was to be portrayed209.
He gave his whole heart to his task, and he brought to it a new sense of values, born of suffering. When he had finished, you could see the cardinal's soul looking at you from the canvas. The smile Peter prayed to catch curves his lips, a smile that baffles and enchants210. He wears his red robes, and one fine, aristocratic hand with the churchly ring on it rests upon the magnificent cat lying on the table beside him. That superb "Cardinal with the Cat" put the seal upon Peter Champneys's reputation as a great artist.
He knew what he had achieved. Yet his lips quivered and his eyes were smileless when, down in the left-hand corner, he painted in the Red Admiral.
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1
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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eschewed
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| v.（尤指为道德或实际理由而）习惯性避开，回避( eschew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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redoubtable
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| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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skittish
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| adj.易激动的，轻佻的 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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18
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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25
seethes
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| （液体）沸腾( seethe的第三人称单数 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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26
rehabilitate
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| vt.改造(罪犯)，修复；vi.复兴，(罪犯)经受改造 | |
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27
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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28
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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30
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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craftsmanship
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| n.手艺 | |
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32
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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33
disported
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| v.嬉戏，玩乐，自娱( disport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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35
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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36
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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39
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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41
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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42
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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43
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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44
patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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45
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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46
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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48
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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49
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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50
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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51
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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52
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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53
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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54
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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55
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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56
mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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57
cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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58
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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59
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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60
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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61
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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63
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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67
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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68
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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69
hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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71
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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75
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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78
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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80
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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81
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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82
romp
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| n.欢闹；v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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83
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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84
dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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millet
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| n.小米，谷子 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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87
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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88
heartier
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| 亲切的( hearty的比较级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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91
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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93
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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94
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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95
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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98
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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99
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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100
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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101
philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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102
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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103
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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104
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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105
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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106
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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107
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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108
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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109
portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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110
immortals
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| 不朽的人物( immortal的名词复数 )； 永生不朽者 | |
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111
banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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112
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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113
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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114
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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115
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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116
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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117
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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118
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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119
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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120
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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121
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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122
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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123
charcoaling
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| 烧炭 | |
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124
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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125
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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126
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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127
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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128
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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129
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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130
crookedly
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| adv. 弯曲地，不诚实地 | |
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131
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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132
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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133
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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134
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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135
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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136
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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137
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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138
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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139
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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140
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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141
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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142
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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143
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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144
rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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145
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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147
rapacious
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| adj.贪婪的，强夺的 | |
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148
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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149
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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150
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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152
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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153
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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154
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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155
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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156
abhors
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| v.憎恶( abhor的第三人称单数 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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157
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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158
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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160
wilted
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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162
savory
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| adj.风味极佳的，可口的，味香的 | |
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163
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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164
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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165
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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166
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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167
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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168
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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169
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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170
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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171
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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173
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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174
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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175
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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176
exhales
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的第三人称单数 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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177
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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178
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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179
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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180
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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181
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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182
daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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183
outweighed
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的过去式和过去分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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184
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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185
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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186
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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187
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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188
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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189
reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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190
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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191
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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192
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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193
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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194
succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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195
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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196
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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197
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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198
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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199
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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200
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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201
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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202
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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203
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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204
lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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205
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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206
versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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207
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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208
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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209
portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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210
enchants
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| 使欣喜，使心醉( enchant的第三人称单数 )； 用魔法迷惑 | |
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