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Page 21
ALEXIS DIMITRIEVITCH KASGHINE
N� � MOSCOU, le 20 JANVIER, 1823,
MORT � PARIS, le 20 D�CEMBRE, 1884.
_Priez pour lui_.
A RE-INCARNATION
We were, according to our nightly habit, in possession of the Caf� des
Souris--dear Caf� des Souris, that is no more; and our assiduous
patronage rumour alleges to have been the death of it--we were in
possession of the Caf� des Souris, a score or so of us, chiefly
English speakers, and all votaries of one or other of the
'quatre-z-arts,' when the door swung open, and he entered.
Now, the entrance of anybody not a member of our particular _c�nacle_
into the Caf� des Souris, we, who felt (I don't know why) that we had
proprietary rights in the establishment, could not help deeming
somewhat in the nature of an unwarranted intrusion; so we stopped our
talk for an instant, and stared at him: a man of medium stature,
heavily built, with hair that fell to his shoulders, escaping from
beneath a broad-brimmed, soft felt hat, knee breeches like a
bicyclist's, and, in lieu of overcoat, a sort of doublet, or magnified
cape, of buff-coloured cloth.
He supported our examination, and the accompanying interval of
silence, which ordinary flesh and blood might have found embarassing,
with more than composure--with, it seemed to me, a dimly perceptible,
subcutaneous smile, as of satisfaction--and seated himself at the only
vacant table. This world held nothing human worthy to rivet our
attention longer than thirty seconds, whence, very soon, we were hot
in debate again. It was the first Sunday in May; I need hardly add
that our subject-matter was the _Vernissage_, at which the greater
number of us had assisted.
For myself, however, I could not forbid my gaze to wander back from
time to time upon the stranger: an indulgence touching which I felt
the less compunction, in that he had (it was a fair inference) got
himself up with a deliberate view to attracting just such notice. Else
why the sombrero and knickerbockers, the flowing locks and eccentric
yellow cloak? Nay, I think it may have been in part this very note of
undisguised vanity in the man that made it difficult to keep one's
eyes off him: it tickled the sense of humour, and challenged the
curiosity. What would his state of mind be, who, in the dotage of the
Nineteenth Century, went laboriously out of his way to cultivate a
fragmentary resemblance to--say a spurious Vandyke?
As the heat of the room began to tell upon him, he threw aside his
outer garment, and hung up his hat, thereby discovering a velvet
jacket and a very low-cut shirt, with unstarched rolling collar, and
sailor's knot of pale green Liberty silk. His long hair, of a faded,
dusty brown, was brushed straight back from his forehead, and
plastered down upon his scalp, in such wise as to lend him a
misleading effect of baldness. He wore a drooping brown moustache, and
a lustreless brown beard, trimmed to an Elizabethan point. His skin
was sallow; his eyes were big, wide apart, of an untransparent buttony
brilliancy, and in colour dully blue. Taken for all in all, his face,
deprived of the adventitious aids of long hair and Elizabethan beard,
would have been peculiarly spiritless and insignificant, but from the
complacency that shone like an unguent in every line of it, as well
as from the studied picturesqueness of his costume, it was manifest
that he posed as a unique and interesting character, a being
mysterious and romantic, melancholy and rarely gifted--like the artist
in a bad play.
Artist, indeed, of some description, I told myself, he must infallibly
be reckoned. What mere professional man or merchant would have the
heart to render his person thus conspicuous? And the hypothesis that
might have disposed of him as a _model_ was excluded by the freshness
of his clothes. A poet, painter, sculptor, possibly an actor or
musician--anyhow, something to which the generic name of artist,
soiled with all ignoble use, could more or less flatteringly be
applied--I made sure he was; an ornament of our own English-speaking
race, moreover, proclaimed such by the light of intelligence that
played upon his features as he followed our noisy conversation; and,
at a guess, two or three-and-thirty years of age.
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