LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1299, 18 May 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE LAST DROSCHKY. By Walter TTkrhies Pollock. [“Temple Bar.”] Chapter I. ‘ Tieno—tiens —Aims —qoc (liable !’ cried .Maurice do Courval as ho opened one of the many letter*, and packages brought to him by the |morning post on a fine day of the London season. There was needed some singularly perplexing or exciting event to (Law from him any exclamation of surprise, for he was accustomed to receive with indifference, partly affected and partly habitual letters and communications of various sorts, which some people would have sacrificed all future power of reading to possess. That such a sacrifice would have been as far from wisdom as Don from Beersheba is nothing to the present purpose ; except in this respect, that it would never have occurred to tourval to make such a sacrifice, or indeed, at the time of the recorded exclamation any sacrifice which could have interfered with his comfort or his esteem for himself as a person far above common needs or cares. T here are many cases in which self esteem, or at least self-confidence, may be a valuable possession, by which a man may make a place in the world for merit that might otherwise never find so much as a niche. Courval’s was hardly one of these cases. The self that he esteemed was » self that need no pett-ng or admiration added to that which it gotf from outside ; it was a delicate self—a self that delighted in purple and fine linen, and got them and many more difficult luxuries at the cost of little trouble. But for all these things trouble had been spent in the past, weary days of study and practice, weary weeks " of uncertain success ami baffled hope, weary months of probation before a fickle public, whom Oourval knew’ to be ignorant for the most part of the matter on which he stood to them for judg ment. To begin with, it had been no slight matter for the owner of a noble name, handed down to him from a time as far hack as that of Busay d’Ambniso, to take refuge from hia reverses in a profession which, though far more honored in France and on the Continent genera ly than here, ia seldom adopt el in Fiance by people who should have een born to elegant idleness. In Hermany, it is true, one need not go far to find in the bills of a theatre an actor or singer with a Von before his name ; but in France there is hardly an instance of a man who can write Comte de, Marquis de. or simple de before hia name having sold his genius tothe public gaze. This Courval had done, and in that and other things had paid i,o light price for the celebrity he at last ohtained as the most charming of operatic tenors. A tenor in these days is as scarce as a stuffed dodo, and’a tenor who catches the taste of the Parisian public enj >ys many privileges which no dodo stuff-d or living can ever have dreamt «>f Of such tenors M Carat, whom Mile. Dejazet used to bring to life on the stage, is the type ; and when it is said that Courval’s success rivalled that of. Carat, it will be seen that Courval was a man to be much envied, or pitied, or both, according to the temperament or mood of whoever considered bis fate. One anecdote may serve to indicate the pleasing pains whic h in the height of his Parisian success beset him. He had been accustomed to wear a pair of moustaches, fine and delicate as those of Charles bin the Louvre portrait. He was suddenly called upon to play in an opera of the ‘ powder’ period, and with a devotion for hia calling that many of its body would do well to follow, he determined to sacrifice these moustaches on the alte- of art. he news of the intended sacrifice w’as quickly known, and the day after it had been resolved on a great lady met him. With the impertinence that great ladies sometime* descend to in conve sing with people whose ways are not in their ways, and who are. therefore in their estimation, of an inferior order, t-he asked him, with the air of o- c conferring a favor, for a lock of the hai that was about to be immolated Courval leidien in words that were as true as they ought to have be?n rebukin': ‘Je sais on no pent plus fache, madame; dies s uit t ntes deux promises.’ At the time when Courval made this answer he was yet so young in the ways of the world as to be surprised at the utter ineffectiveness of the irony wh’ch he threw into a matter-of f ict statement

While Conrval was still wondering at the object which had drawn from him the ■. xcla•nation of ‘ Tiens, tiens— 4110 dixble!’ a friend of his, Grey Hirers, a young man with just enough trains to excuse bis being very wealthy, came in. •Ah ! cher I 1 cried Conrval, perceiving h'm, ‘see what has befallen me. Ten days ago T go to the photographer, who says he must make a photograph of me, and to-day I cx »ect the first copy. Behold what shape it has taken.’ Hivers examined the photograph, which was. in fact, a portrait of a remarkably a'i.ractive girl; and with the fondness that beonghd to him for displaying what ho con -idered his penetration on every possible oc ca«ion, immediately went < if into a mor* voluble than coherent explanation of thr circumstance 4 You see what has happened, ae said: this girl-a very pretty girl toohas had her photograph—very bkey on the same day a® yours—has had her photograph taken by the same man, I remember it*happening to me » ith a coat, only the other day—and the stupid fellow who sent out of the proofs has mixed them up am' put wrong directions, very likely on all the proofs ho had to send out. This is what has happened, depend upon it.’ When hivers had finished this speech, with a pleasant smi'e of delight at his own perspicacity, Conrval replied drily, 4 That is very probable. But the fact itself interests me more than the explanation. 4 The fact of the photograph ?’ ‘ Precisely. The copy pleasesj me, and I should like to see the original.’ 4 1 rather fancy,’ said Hivers, looking at it again, ‘that I have met this girl somewhere. L have such a dreadful memory for names, and then one sees to many people in the course of the season.’

4 Ah, yes ! you h to go out a good deal, said t ourval with a half-ironical smile, ‘ One has,’ replied hivers with a deprecat mg shrug, which he had perhaps caught from Courval, 4 to do a great many things one would rather not in that way—people forget you if they lose sight of you—and by skipping a dull thing, don’t you know, one may miss the chance of something good.’ ‘Eh I mon pauvre ami, do you then spend yonr life in the pursuit of chances!’ 4 Well, you see, one can’t well help it. It’s so difficult to refu-o invitations, and when one once begins there’s no knowing when to stop. I think next season I shall give up the whole thing and take to modelling clay.’ ‘ It is assuredly a pity,’ said Courval, ‘that you should neglect y< ur talent in that direction. I saw a day or two ago a head by you of our friend Grant which has struck me much—l make you my compliments on it.’

* Pid you life© it ?’ said Pivers, disguising his de'igbt with an affected carelessness j ‘it is a trifl ng thing, i hope to do better when I have more time; and by-the-by ourv 1, I you would let n e do a head of y u ; of course 1 cannot do justice to the subject, but if you wilt let me try ’

nd Rivera ended hia sentence with a wave < f the hand, that he thought was thoroughly French, and was answered by on whi h ready was, from Courval, who said, ‘lt «il be a g>-eat honor f r me; bm when t m tv> a' ! your engagements eauyou rind thoccasion ?’

• we will manage that,’ retutned R vers in h gh good-humour. Courval, wao thronghout tb r s conversation had been looking a' strsete ! iy at ti e photograph, now took it up ag-iu and a iid—

‘ It is very riognUr, I wonder if ibi litt'e o te has received, t->o, my ph»*ogr i| h ’ My -‘ear fel ow,’ raid Rive'S, ‘it wool lb easy enough t> find out One wou I -o h i ave to a*s thepbotog «; her. I don’t know whether I shall have time to go there this Smooth I Uav«i eevoral visits to pay—let

me see,’ and he began to run over his list of engagements, when Courval interrupted him with—- * Ah, bah! Apres tout, ce n’est pas la peine I have to go to a repetition-rehearsal I would say, and can spare no time to think of little girls’ photographs.’ * Unless you think of it while you sing “Ralve Dirnora,” that wouldn’t be a bad plan to get inspiration,' rejoined Rivera. Courval for an answer roiled a cigarette with nimble fingers, and saying, or rather singing. ‘ Andiamo,’ ~weat out arm-in-arm with Rivers. Chapter 11. About ten[ days after this oonversitioft Rivera had succeeded in modelling a head of Courval, which, considered as the work of an amateur, was decidedly creditable to it* designer. * Of course, my dear fellow,’ he said to the tenor as be looked at his work with pardonable pride, * your many admirers, all the women who are si ruck with your belles yeux’ (Rivers prided himself on being a linguist, and had a marvellous trick of making gross blunders in all languages), ‘ will say it'* not handsome enough ’ Aud Courval, twisting his moustache, replied with the sublime insolence which only he could carry off, ‘ Parbleu !’ After which Rivers proposed to test the question by asking some people to bis rooms to eat ctrawberries, and look at the head, and Courval promised to be there if possible. The only members of the party which assembled in Rivers's rooms to whom it is necessary to call attention are hia annt, Lady Rivers, her daughter Violet, and two friends who came with them, Mrs and Miss Manners. When Rivers was introduced to Mias Manners, he observed with his pleasant smile that ha wa* sure ho had had the pleasure of meeting Miss Manners somewhere before, * but one goes to so many places in the season, don’t yon know, tbit one never can tell at which of thebe a particular thing has happened. However, Miss Manners and I have established the great fact that we have mot before.’ Secretly he was racking hi* brains to define the vague impression which Mias Manner-.’e face made upon him. ‘Now, trey.’ said Lady Rivers presently, ‘ let us see the work of art. It is certainly very like,’ she continued, as Rivers displayed the head, ‘ aud I think quite handsome mongh.’ ‘ What do yon say. Miss Manners ?’ inquired the delighted artist. ‘ 1 cannot give any opinion as to the likeness, for I have never seen the original,’ said Miss Manners, •Never seen the great Courval?’ askod Rivers in surprise. 4 No. To confess the truth, I care nothing for the opera. ’ 4 Bub you are fond of music, Nora,’ said Violet Livers. ‘ Yea ; and that is the reason why I never go to the opera If mamma would let me go to the gallery I would go. In the etal s and boxes, it seems to me that people think of everything before the music. When I have just been carried away into the glory of former times, I didike being recalled to these days by being asked if I am going to Ascot ’ ‘ I oau quite understand that, Miss Manners,’ said Rivers. 4 Of course one gets used to that kind of thing. At ie?-st I mean i find it never troubles me’ \this is strictly true). * Rut I’ve often heard Courval say that nothing upsets him so m -ch in his part as being reminded in any way tbit he’s only acting. I know once, when a woman in the front row fainted and was carried ouq and it caught hia eye, he was spoilt for the rest of the evening ’ 4 That is curious,’ said Lady Rivers ‘for I remember when the greatest singer I have ever heard was singing * Deh vieni all fenestra,' a man fell down in a tit. and ths orchestra stopped until he had been taken away. But son G'ovanni, wh n they began again, sang as beautiful y and steadily as i he had never been interrupted.’ ITo ho oontinvod.)