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Page 26
'His cheek, by Christopher!' cried Chalks. 'Live in the Quarter for a
fortnight, keep his eyes and ears shut, talk perpetually of Davis
Blake, and read nothing but his own works, and then go home and write
a book about it. _I'll_ quarter him!'
But Chalks counted without his man. That Monsieur Bullier, the founder
of the Closerie des Lilas, was also Professor of Moral Philosophy in
the Coll�ge de France; that the word _�tudiante_ (for Blake had only a
tourist's smattering of French) should literally be translated
_student_, and that the young ladies who bore it as a name were indeed
pursuing rigorous courses of study at the Sorbonne; that it was
obligatory upon a freshman (_nouveau_) in the Quarter to shave his
head and wear wooden shoes for the first month after his
matriculation--from these and kindred superstitions Blake was saved by
his grand talent for never paying attention.
In the meanwhile some of us had read his books: chromo-lithographs,
struck in the primary colours; pasteboard complications of passion and
adventure, with the conservative entanglement of threadbare
marionnettes--a hero, tall, with golden brown moustaches and blue
eyes; a heroine, lissome, with 'sunny locks;' then a swarthy villain,
for the most part a nobleman, and his Spanish-looking female
accomplice, who had an uncomfortable habit of delivering her remarks
'from between clenched teeth,' and, generally, 'in a blood-chilling
hiss'--the narrative set forth in a sustained _fortissimo_, and
punctuated by the timely exits of the god from the machine. Never a
felicity, never an impression. I fancy he had made his notes of human
nature whilst observing the personages of a melodrama at a provincial
theatre. He loved the obvious sentiment, the obvious and but
approximate word.
But the climax of his infatuation was not disclosed till the night
before he left us. Again we were in session at the Caf� des Souris,
and the talk had turned upon metempsychosis. Blake, for a wonder,
pricked up his ears and appeared to listen, at the same time watching
his chance to take the floor. Half-a-dozen men had their say first,
however; then he cut in.
'Metempsychosis is not a theory, it is a fact. I can testify to it
from my personal experience. I know it. I can distinctly recall my
former life. I can tell you who I was, who my friends were, what I
did, what I felt, everything, down to the very dishes I preferred for
dinner.'
Chalks scanned Blake's features for an instant with an intentness that
suggested a mingling of perplexity and malice; then, all at once, I
saw a light flash in his eyes, which forthwith began to twinkle in a
manner that struck me as ominous.
'In my early youth,' Blake continued, 'this memory of mine was, if I
may so phrase it, piecemeal and occasional. Feeling that I was no
ordinary man, conscious of strange forces struggling in me, I would
obtain, as it were, glimpses, fleeting and unsatisfactory, into a
former state. Then they would go, not for long intervals to return. As
time elapsed, however, these glimpses, to call them so, became more
frequent and lasting, the intervals of oblivion shorter; and at last,
one day on Hampstead Heath, I identified myself in a sudden burst of
insight. I was walking on the Heath, and thinking of my
work--marvelling at a certain quality I had discerned in it, which, I
was convinced, would assure it everlasting life: a quality that
seemed not unfamiliar to me, and yet which I could associate with none
of the writers whose names passed in review before my mind; not with
Byron, or Shelley, or Keats, not with Wordsworth or Coleridge, Goethe
or Dante, not even with Homer. I mean the quality which I call
universal--universal in its authenticity, universal in its appeal.
By-and-bye, I took out a little pocket mirror that I always carry, and
looked into it, studying my face. One glance sufficed. There,
suddenly, on Hampstead Heath, the whole thing flashed upon me. I saw,
I understood; I realised who I was, I remembered everything.'
'Stop right there, Mr. Blake,' called out Chalks in stentorian tones.
'Don't you say another word. I'm going to hail you by your right name
in half-a-minute. I guess I must have recognised you the very first
time I clapped eyes on your distinguished physiognomy; only I couldn't
just _place_ you, as we say over in America. But there was a _je ne
sais quoi_ in the whole cut of your jib as familiar to me as rolls and
coffee. I tried and tried to think when and where I'd had the pleasure
before. But now that you speak of a former state of existence--why,
I'm _there_! It was all I needed, just a little hint like that, to jog
my memory. Talk about entertaining angels unawares! The beard, eh? And
the yaller cloak? And ain't there a statue of you up Boulevard
Haussmann way? Shakesy, old man, shake!'
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