|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 25
'If he were only an ass,' Chalks urged, 'one might feel disposed to
spare him. A merciful man is merciful to a beast. But he's such a cad,
to boot--bandying his wife's name about the Latin Quarter, telling
Tom, Dick, and Harry of their conjugal differences, and boasting of
his successes with other women!'
A few of us, however, could not prevent an element of pity from
tincturing our amusement. If his self-conceit was comical, by reason
of its candour, it was surely pitiable, because of the poor, dwarfed
starveling of a soul that it revealed. Here was a man, with life in
his veins, and round about him the whole mystery and richness of
creation--and he could seriously think of nothing save how, by his
dress, by his speech, his postures, to render himself the observed of
all observers!
Wherever he went, in whatever company he found himself, that was the
sole thing he cared for--to be the centre of attention, to be looked
at, listened to, recognised and admired as a celebrity. And if the
event happened otherwise, if he had ground for the suspicion that the
people near him were suffering their minds to wander to another topic,
his face would darken, his attitude become distinctly one of rancour.
With Chalks, familiarity bred boldness; he made the latter days of
Blake's sojourn amongst us exceedingly unhappy.
'Now, Mr. Blake,' he would say, 'we are going to talk of art and love
and things in general for a while, to rest our brains from the author
of "Crispin Dorr." Please step into the corner there and sulk.'
And he had a bit of slang, which he set to a bar of music, and would
sing, as if in absence of mind, whenever the conversation lapsed, to
the infinite annoyance of Mr. Blake:--
'Git your hair cut--git your hair cut--git your hair cut--_short_!'
'If that is meant for me,' Blake once protested, 'I take it as
discourteous in the last degree.'
'My dear sir, you were twenty thousand leagues from my thoughts. And
as for getting your hair cut, I beseech you, don't. You would shear
away the fabric of our joy,' Chalks answered.
Blake had a curiously exaggerated notion of his fame; and his jealousy
thereof surpassed the jealousy of women. He took it for granted that
everybody had heard of him, and bridled, as at a personal affront,
when he met any one who hadn't. If you fell into chance talk with him,
in ignorance of his identity, he could not let three minutes pass
without informing you. And then, if you appeared not adequately
impressed, he would wax ill-tempered. He was genuinely convinced that
his person and his actions were affairs of consuming interest to all
the world. To be something, to do something, perhaps he honestly
aspired; but to _seem_ something was certainly his ruling passion.
One Sunday afternoon, at his suggestion, we went together to the
studio of Z----, and I introduced him to the Master. But, as we moved
about the vast room, among those small, priceless canvases, the
consciousness grew upon me that my companion was in some distress of
mind. His eye wandered; his utterances were brief and dry. At length
he got me into a corner, and remarked, 'You introduced me simply as
Mr. Blake. He evidently doesn't realise who I am.'
'Oh, these Frenchmen are so indifferent to things not French, you
know,' said I.
'Yes--but--still--I wish you could make an occasion to let him know.
In introducing me you might have added "a distinguished English
author."'
'But do you quite realise who _he_ is?' I cried. 'He's jolly near the
most distinguished living painter.'
'Never mind. He is treating me now as he might Brown, Jones, or
Robinson.' As this was with a superfine consideration, it seemed
unreasonable to demand a difference. Nevertheless, I seized an
opportunity to whisper in the Master's ear a word or two to the
desired effect. '_Tiens_!' he returned composedly, and continued to
treat his visitor precisely as he had done from the beginning.
Blake had announced that he wanted to gather information about the
Latin Quarter; and I don't doubt that his purpose was sincere, but he
employed a novel method of attaining it. We took him everywhere, we
showed him everything; I could never observe that he either looked or
listened. He would sit (or stand or walk), his eye craving admiration
from our faces; his tongue wagging about himself; his early hardships,
his first success, his habits of work, his troubles with his wife, his
_liaison_ with Lady Blank, his tastes in fruits and wines, his
handwriting, his very teeth and boots. He passed his life in a sort of
trance, an ecstacy of self-absorption; he had fallen in love with his
own conception of himself, like a metaphysical Narcissus. This
idiosyncrasy was the means of defeating various conspiracies, in which
Chalks, of course, was the prime mover, calculated to impose upon his
credulity, and send him back to London loaded down with
misinformation.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|