LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume III, Issue 295, 22 May 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

ROMANCE IN A PARIS PENSION

(Continued.) 'Now let us retire to our bedroom,' says Olga. 'We have had a good dose of gossip and scandal, let us «o before we either of lis have said something that we shall regret profoundly the next morning. I do envy those quiet people, who never do, say, or write an impulsive thing; who never get into scrapes. They may be a little dull, perhaps, but how safe they are—how respectable ! # '* # * Olga and I now go regularly to Madame Latour's studio. An old man with a long white beard, furrowed face, attired in the costume of a monk, is our model. I feel that I make great strides in art, Madame Latour is such a good teacher. She comes into our studio once a-day for about an hour; but her advice is so good, her corrections so conscientious, that the progress we make is remarkable. My study of the monk is the second best; Olga's is the best. She signs these two works, as a proof of her approbation. Madame Latour allows us now and then to come into our studio and watch her process of working. She is painting a Bacchante : the head thrown back, vine leaves encircling the red-brown hair, and eyes full of voluptuousness and fire ; the throat and neck are beautifully modelled, and over the bosom is a gorgeous leopard skin. One hand presses a bunch of grapes, the other hangs listlessly at her side. At four o'clock the pupils leave the studio. Olga and I usually saunter through the streets of Paris, look into the shops, and often drop into some of the beautiful old Roman Catholic churches. The quiet, the subdued light pouring in through the colored windows, the paintings, the incense, the solemn peals of the organ, the fresh voices of les enfans An chmur in their white and colored garments, the harmony of the architecture, is an attraction to the artistic temperament. One afternoon we had a sort of religious discussion. I said that I found the so-called Low Church cold, unsympathetic, and even very dull; and going to pray at stated hours and days formal and unnatural. Now, in Catholic communities the churches are always opened ; and when you need prayer, and would desire repose it is a comfort to drop into one of those old churches ; aud even if no service is going on, it is soothing to listen to the silence, to be in an atmosphere of subdued light. There is more poetry in the Roman Catholic faith, with all its grievous errors.

'lam a pagan,' says Olga. 'Nature is my god ; the sun, the stars, and the yellow moon are my deities. On Sundays I generally take long rambles in the country with Fido, my dog, and my little maid Nina. Sometimes, when the spirit moves me, which is seldom, I go to hear the celebrated pasteur, Monsieur Bonchemin, le pasteur a la mode. All the ladies run after him, and that is or.e of the reasons I go so seldem to his chapel, for it makes me ill to see how women turn the heads of those servants of God! Monsieur Bonchemin is a man of great eloquence. His sermons are great intellectual treats : he never reads his sermons, and that is such an advantage! His utterance is delightful, voice beautiful; he never hesitates for a word. He is very handsome, like a St John, with a slightly melancholy reveur expression, which isfascinating. His handsare beautiful, and he knows it, for one of these appendages he lets hang gracefully down the pulpit cushion. He is a woman's pasteur—a kind of Protestant Pope : his power is great, his appeals to the conscience are searching and keen, and he certainly makes me feel horribly uncomfortable ; but when I see all those elegant toilettes, those wonderful Paris bonnets, I do not feel at all as if 1 was worshipping an unseem God—merely listening to a handsome, eloquent preacher. So I prefer Nature : I feel more elevated looking at a fine sunset, or at the sea, than kneeling upon a hard footstool, surrounded by silks, satins, and prosperity. Vanitas vanitatum, omnia, vanitas ! Do you know Mr Morris is a Positivist, a follower of Comte ? He worships humanity He tells me he does his duty, and tries to love his neighbour. As far as I know, his notion of duty is to paint pictures, and I do not think he cares for his neighbours. He is often much depressed; and really I do not wonder at it, for it is hard to have little in this world, and to think he will have nothing at all in the next.' At this point of the conversation, who should we see but Mr Morris, in an old battered wide-awake, a very shabby coat, and a portfolio under his arm. Olga taps him on the back with her parasol. He starts, and looks uncomfortable. We tell him that we were just talking about him, and saying that it was a pity he did not believe in a future state.

' The boulevards are scarcely a fit place for a discussion upon the immortality of the soul,' answers Mr Morris smiling; 'but if you are anxious to know my belief, all I can say is, that my mind is not made up. I feel that I have a soul, and do not think it will perish.' 'Let us leave the soul alone,' exclaims Olga, looking into a cake shop. ' I shall perish if Ido not eat. Let us enter this patisserie, and fill our inner beings !' Mr Morris tries to escape. He declares that he is not in a fit state to be seen walking in ladies' society ; he has been sketching all day at the Jarcbn des Plantes. ' You know, Mr Morris, that I am also a Bohemian, and do not mind how shabby j ou look.'

We insist so much that he consents to remain with us, and so we enter the shop, devour a number of creams eclairs, and Olga orders a parcel of cakes, biscuits, and botibons to he made up for a small protogeoi hers, a cripple boy; whom she is going to visit the following day.

We walk through the Tuileries Gardens. How imposing the ruins of this once mighty palace look in this twilight! There is something very grand about the old Chateau now, as it stands there mutilated. What pages of history have been enacted there ! —a whole past swept away ! The gardens are at this hour deserted. The statues seem quite mournful, and look like ghosts in this dim grey light. A solitary white swan is gliding warily in a dismal pond ; the trees make a dark background; the clouds are purple ; there is a thin mist over everything, and just over the ruined helpless palace peeps a young crescent moon. The sentinel looks like an uneasy spirit, as he stands at the gate of the Garden.

We cross the bridge, down the Quai Voltaire, and peep leisurely into all the bric-a-brac shops, and lastly we enter an old curiosity shop, full of quaint odd pieces of

furniture, old cliiua, old plate, &c. It is a queer little den. The shopman is a Jew, named Solomon—a thin, wiry old fellow, with a few scanty white hairs brushed carefully over his narrow head, spectacles falling down his long thin nose. In his wrinkled hand he holds a lamp, which casts mysterious shadows here and there in the small shop. 'A picture for Rembrandt,' I thought, as I watch the old Jew ferreting out his antique wares, beautiful bronzes, laces, old books, prints, &c. ' What a splendid bit of old tapestry ! It would look well in my little studio,' exclaims Mr Morris, ' but I must not be tempted to buy it.' Olga goes up to the shopman, whispers something mysteriously, and the piece of tapestry is folded up and presented to Mr Morris. ' A souvenir from me,' says Olga to him, 'in remembrance of this charming walk.'

Mr Morris changes color, looks bewildered, refuses, but Olga insists, so he naturally ends by gratefully accepting it. I am presented with a pair af antique gold earrings, which in the innocence of my heart I had admired.

• You see what it is to go out with this Lady Boutiful; one dare not express a wish,' says Mrs Morris. ' The pleasure is greater in giving than in receiving, so say nothing more about it.' We meet Uranie at the door of the pension, who tells me, to my great amazement, that my cousin, Mr Horace Dashwood, ' a varie prettie boy,' is upstairs, waiting to see me. ' How very absurd !' Olga and I both exclaim, and before we can make any further remark my cousin stands before us. 'Glad to see you both/ Horace shouts, shaking hands with us heartily; ' what wild Bohemians you are to be sure ! —meandering about Paris, not coming in to dinner, and not telling anybody where you go." 'I am the culprit,' says Mr Morris, 'I really thought it a pity to go indoors such a lovely evening, so I begged the young ladies to dine at a restaurant.'

Mr Morris looks much confused, bids us good night, and Horace follows us upstairs. ' Who on earth is that fellow ? in such a shabby old coat and battered wide-awake ? An artist, of course. I cannot understand how two fashionably dressed girls could walk out with a man in such a beggarly costume. You consider him a genius, innocent young creatures, simply because he looks dirty.' ' Now, Mr Dashwood, I will not allow you to call Mr Morris dirty; he is a great artist, and no doubt a man of genius too. You think, evidently, that the coat makes the man. Some men do depend entirely upon their tailor for success in the world; Mr Morris is above such a consideration. He has a soul above buttons." ' Well, I wish he had some more buttons to his coat. lam sorry, Mademoiselle Olga, if I have hurt your feelings. All I can say is, that if artists are all like Mr Morris then I would rather not know any. But let un drop this very unpleasant topic. You look very cross, Mademoiselle Olga.' Olga pouts, and disappears from the room. ' I suppose I have annoyed her. Is shtj engaged to that wild Bohemian in the old wide-awake V ' No, she is not; but he is a very great admirer of hers—in fact, I am sure the man is in love with her. So you ought to b<s more careful, and not give vent to all your notions about artists. Mr Morris will one day make his mark in the world.' Horace gives a long contemptuous whistle: ' I do not pretend to understand artists ; they are a race apart.' After a little talk about family affairs Olga returns. To my amusement, she has changed her dress, and put on a most becoming lilac silk dress, and placed a coquettish lilac ribbon in her wavy hair. I, of course, make no outward and visible sign of astonishment; but evidently this inconsistent little maiden is a flirt, and, consequently, bent upon making a conquest of my cousin, the famous woman-hater!

'Won't you and Mr Horace come into my parlour and have some supper?—but you must not abuse Mr Morris, or we shall quarrel dreadfully.' An exquisite little supper is laid out on the table. A couple of lamps shed a soft light. The water is hissing in the urn. Comfort, luxury, and artistic objects make this room a little Paradise. The windows are open, and in the balcony stand masses of roses, heliotropes, and lilies of the valley. ' What a lovely room !' exclaims Horace. ' Paris taste, good English comfort: what more can a mortal require ?' 'Yes, Mr Dashwood, though I am an artist and a Bohemian, I do like pretty things, and no end of luxury. I hope that you admire my dress ? it is made by a very fashionable dressmaker.' And she makes him a profound courtesy. ' I have been admiring you ; such a toilette could only come out of the hands of a Parisian dressmaker, and those dear little shoes that I spy are works of art.' Olga takes off her slipper, and hands it to Horace for nearer inspection. It ia very small, of lilac satin, embroidered with silver braid.

'Cinderella's slipper; and you, Horace, are the Prince,' I remark. 'Oh no, Mr Dashwood is not gallant enough for that; his chief failing is not to admire us poor women, alas! But I think we can do without his admiration. Have some sparking moselle or champagne, or both, and eat some oijhepate de lievre, Mr Horace, and tell me" what you have been doing with your great self since I had the pleasure of seeing you, more than a year ago.'

' Well, I have been doing what most of us Englishmen spend the greater part of our lives in doing, that is, killing beasts, birds, and fishes—viz, hunting, shooting, and tißhing. Yon foreigners can hardly understand or appreciate this mode of life, but it makes us the manly race we are, the first nation in the world. Hurrah !

'Well, Ido think,' answers Olga, 'that hunting and shooting is very cruel sport: to see a number of big, burly men, spending their energies running after a poor fox, or a little hare, it seems wicked; and as for deer-stalking, I simply think it is a crime. I cannot understand how any man can wound a beautiful deer, with its splendid horns and lovely, pit«ous eyes, looking so pleading ; no, I think it cowardly. Ido not think fishing so bad,' says Olga. 'lt is rather nice sport; one sits in a boat, with a pretty landscape all about, for the scenery is generally lovely, the water delicious, and one has merely to wait for the fish ; and when it is caught the poor thing does not seem to dislike it so very much, he does not scream or bleed. No, fishing is rather a poetical pastime.' {To be continued.)