“Friends made in Paris and found again here at every corner, like pleasant surprises,—but no friend so welcome and dear as Frank Vance.”
“Sensible of the honour, O Lionello the Magnificent. Verily you are bon prince! The Houses of Valois and of Medici were always kind to artists. But whither would you lead me? Back into that treadmill? Thank you, humbly; no.”
“A crowd in fine clothes is of all mobs the dullest. I can look undismayed on the many-headed monster, wild and rampant; but when the many-headed monster buys its hats in Bond Street, and has an eyeglass at each of its inquisitive eyes, I confess I take fright. Besides, it is near seven o’clock; Putney not visible, and the flounders not fried!”
“My cab is waiting yonder; we must walk to it: we can keep on the turf, and avoid the throng. But tell me honestly, Vance, do you really dislike to mix in crowds; you, with your fame, dislike the eyes that turn back to look again, and the lips that respectfully murmur, ‘Vance the Painter’? Ah, I always said you would be a great painter,—and in five short years you have soared high.”
“Pooh!” answered Vance, indifferently. “Nothing is pure and unadulterated in London use; not cream, nor cayenne pepper; least of all Fame,—mixed up with the most deleterious ingredients. Fame! did you read the ‘Times’ critique on my pictures in the present Exhibition? Fame indeed Change the subject. Nothing so good as flounders. Ho! is that your cab? Superb! Car fit for the ‘Grecian youth of talents rare,’ in Mr. Enfield’s ‘Speaker;’ horse that seems conjured out of the Elgin Marbles. Is he quiet?”
“Not very; but trust to my driving. You may well admire the horse,—present from Darrell, chosen by Colonel Morley.” When the young men had settled themselves into the vehicle, Lionel dismissed his groom, and, touching his horse, the animal trotted out briskly.
“Frank,” said Lionel, shaking his dark curls with a petulant gravity, “your cynical definitions are unworthy that masculine beard. You despise fame! what sheer affectation!
“‘Pulverem Olympicum
Collegisse juvat; metaque fervidis
Evitata rotis——-’”
“Take care,” cried Vance; “we shall be over.” For Lionel, growing excited, teased the horse with his whip; and the horse bolting, took the cab within an inch of a water-cart.
“Fame, fame!” cried Lionel, unheeding the interruption. “What would I not give to have and to hold it for an hour?” “Hold an eel, less slippery; a scorpion, less stinging! But—” added Vance, observing his companion’s heightened colour—“but,” he added seriously, and with an honest compunction, “I forgot, you are a soldier, you follow the career of arms! Never heed what is said on the subject by a querulous painter! The desire of fame may be folly in civilians: in soldiers it is wisdom. Twin-born with the martial sense of honour, it cheers the march; it warms the bivouac; it gives music to the whir of the bullet, the roar of the ball; it plants hope in the thick of peril; knits rivals with the bond of brothers; comforts the survivor when the brother falls; takes from war its grim aspect of carnage; and from homicide itself extracts lessons that strengthen the safeguards to humanity, and perpetuate life to nations. Right: pant for fame; you are a soldier!”