LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume III, Issue 293, 20 May 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

♦ ROMANCE IN A PARIS PENSION. Part 11. ( Continued. ) Next morning Olga comes into my room, looking so sweet and fresh in the pretty lavender muslin, and passing her arm through mine we go down the staircase together. On our way to the dining room we meet several boarders, issuing from their respective bedrooms. No need to inquire after the nationality of these beings. Alas ! Englishwomen cannot be mistaken on the Continent; their want of taste and tact in dress is an unmistakable badge. This thought shot across my brain as I perceive a large family preceding us downstairs ; the mother, tremendously stout and bcefy-looking, is in ill-fitting many coloured garments, with such feet ! encased in immense boots. She wears two large brooches, evidently family portraits—one pinning a collai’, the other doing nothing, just for show. Pour pretty daughters follow her closely, guiltless of any attempt at style. Perhaps this want oi taste in (Hess is made more conspicuous by the presence of two young American girls, elegantly attired in the very last new fashion. * How are .you, Mademoiselle Soultikoff ?’ thej both exclaim, in strong nasal accent. 1 I guess this is the friend you have been expecting all along ?’ and on receiving from Olga an affirmative nod they shake hands cordially with me. ‘So glad to see you. Arc you come to Paris alone? I reckon that you are. one of our sort; you find your family an inconvenience ? I told my people,’ said the elder of the two, ‘ all very well to stay under the maternal and paternal wing when one is a chicken, but once that period over wo want our liberty. How well you have fixed j our hair, Mademoiselle Soultikoff. That’s the style, 1 guess, that Mr Morris likes. Now do not blush, no harm having a genius for an admirer, though he ought to fix himself better, cut his hair short; but he is a lovely fellow, and you need not be ashamed of your conquest; he never takes any notice of anyone but of yon. You are both kindred spirits.’ I could not help laughing, but Olga seemed rather annoyed and confused. At the bottom of the ctrJroaso we were greeted by a very fat bonne in a very white frilled cap ; her round face beams with good nature. She stands at the door o* J :Lc mile a manner, and as 1 am the last new arrival she indicates my place, which is quite at the end of the long table. Olga is near the top, and sits close to the genius, Mr Morris. About fifty people sit on each side of a very long table. At a side-board the fat bonne, whose name is Uranie, pours out tea and coffee, with wonderful celerity, serves everybody right and left; she darts from one to another with a quickness of step that is delightful to witness ; while serving she has a funny, witty repartee always ready. At my right sits an Irish girl, as I instantly discover by her rich musical brogue. She is pretty ; large grey eyes and auburn hair. Her mother sits next to her ; they are on their way home from Italy. Opposite to me is a large tribe of Americans. ‘ Well! do they call that breakfast on this side of the pond ?’ exclaims the man of the party, putting up his eyeglass. ‘ I really see nothing. In our country, madam,’ addressing the Irish girl, ‘we have for breakfast stewed beefsteaks, chops, tongue, ham, eggs, potatoes dressed in a dozen different ways, oatmeal cakes, pumpkin pie, jams, jellies, creams, and hot bread of different kinds; but here I just spy a few unhappy-looking sardines and some eggs. Call this breakfast ? Well, I suppose we must make the best of it, but I pronounce this starvation. In the States we breakfast at seven o’clock, for every man goes to business at eight; but Europe is a slow place, and the French have nothing to do but smoke and go to cafes, I guess. Ido not wonder that they got so thoroughly licked by the Germans, for, after America, Germany is the next great power, and that is because they feed their inner man. In England we always get the same food ; no variety, and everything so greasy. ’ At the end of a few seconds, what was to be had on the table had found its way on to the American plates. What an odd mix ture ! eggs chopped up with jam, sardines, butter, all mixed together. ‘No wonder Brother Sam is so yellow and bilious-look-ing,’ whispers the Irish girl. The two American young ladies are flirting desperately with a fair young Englishman. ‘I guess,’ says the prettier of, the two, ‘that you like better travelling without your mother.’ This speech is accompanied by a look that cannot be described. The young man blushes, and says that his mother is old, and naturally prefers the quiet of her country home in England. A little higher tip the table sits the funny man of the hoarding-house. His name is Mr Smiles. He is a fine, tall, good-looking man, with splendid teeth, loud voice, and such a ringing laugh ! It shakes the room, and is so infectious that everybody joins in it. He is sitting by the side of a very ugly old lady with a brown wig on one side, and we hear him all over the room saying. ‘ Now, deaf Mrs Kingsley, you have not done your hair properly this morning ; you know that it hurts my feelings to think that you no longer Care to appear charming in my eyes. Are you beginning to care less for Theophilus Smiles?’ And he puts his hand on his heart, and turns his eyes up in a sentimental comical way, which is diverting. Mrs Kingley titters and and seems pleased. Not far from Olga site a pretty English girl, with brown eyes and brown hair. This young lady is having a hot altercation with a gentleman opposite, who is evidently more amused than excited. This young lady is a red-hot republican. She is declaring that the only thing worth living for is the republic ; that is her chief thought, her first principle. She would give up life readily for that glorious cause. She has come oyer to Paris on purpose to see Gambetta. She takes in all the American and Spanish papers, so that she may be well au fait with passing events in republican countries. She argues that England is republican at heart; that the queen is merely an ornament, but that the masses are democrats. Of course this speech is a bomb-shell. Miss Hutchinson is called to order. The Americans scream out nasally that royalty is mere fancy work, and everything appertaining to it a mistake, a nuisance. Yes, democracy is making rapid strides. In less than twenty years the republic will be established everywhere.

Miss Hutchinson is so pleased at finding herself thus supported that she gets up from her chair, rushes to the American camp, and they all shake hands. Then Mr Smiles solemnly rises, stretches out his long fingers, and says ‘Bless y >u, my children.’ This causes general laughter, and for the present the discussion is at an and. Mr Blake is sitting next to a nice ladylike widow, who my pretty neighbour tells me is on the look out for a third husband. Breakfast is over ; the boarders disappear. I join Olga, who is still talking to Mr Morris. This man is evidently under her spell: his look, his manner, denote that pro found admiration which cannot be acted. Mr Morris advances towards me, and asks me if I will honor his small studio with a visit, and accompany Mdlle Soultikoff. I gladly consent, and wc both follow him upstairs to the top of this very big house. ‘lt is an honor that he is paying you,’ whispers Olga. ‘He has never, with the exception of myself, invited anyone to his studio, and nearly all the people entreat him to let them have a peep ; but to no use. So he is not a favorite in this house ; people generally think him conceited. But really he is not so ; he is conscious of his power, and is sensitive and refined.’ Mounting a queer little back, staircase, we enter a kind of garret in tJio roof of the the house. What a delightful view ! The Seine is twinkling at our feet, steamers are rushing by ; we can just see the towers of Notre Dame and the Sainte Chapelle, the (mays, and old book stalls, and curiosity shops. The room is hung all round with sketches in oils and water colours. One o, the first things that attracts my attention is the picture of a girl in white standing in an autumnal landscape ; the tints of the foliage are of a golden brown, at her feet are crisp brown leaves, while she holds some dead leaves in her white hands. There is a listless, lonely look in the face, but the likeness to Olga is striking; the same graceful figure, the same light, untidy, wavy masses of fair hair, the same concentrated thought, and just a tinge of sadness in the large dark grey eyes. Same sweetness in the month, but a little more determination in the chin, and slightly knitted eyebrows. The painting of the face is beautiful; there is a tenderness of treatment which is remarkable, and the coloring is full of harmony. The background is a sunset, the clouds are purple and gold. ‘This picture is the only production of mine which gives me any sort of pleasure, savs Mr Morris ; ‘and 1 shall never part witu it.’ And he gives Olga a + ender look, but she does not respond to it, and calls my attention to some of the sketches which are sufficient to shew that Mr Morris is a man of gcniu.v Rome striking landscapes are lying about—a dark pool of water, ihumiliated by one streak u, strong, rppling light, long tall willows, and a stork sleeping and standing on one leg ; a sea-piece, grey sky, gloomy shore, a white bird fluttering sadly over the white crested waves; stn lies of rocks by moonlight, in deep purple shadows and strong silvery lights. The charm in these various productions is tin intense feeling, the pathetic striving after something beyond—unattainable. To be continued.