Armand Ulrich was a merry young fellow, who cared not a button for all the privileges of wealth, and looked upon an office stool with loathing. He only wanted the free air, his pencil, and a comfortable pipe of tobacco,—and there he was, as he described himself, the happiest animal in France. Before his easel he could be serious enough, but in his uncle’s office he felt an irresistible inclination to burst into profane song, and make rash mention of such places of perdition as the Red Mill and the Shepherd Follies,—follies perfectly the reverse of pastoral. He was not in the least depraved, but he took his pleasure where he found it, and made the most of it. A handsome youngster, whom the traditional felt hat and velvet jacket of art became a trifle too well. At least he wore this raiment somewhat ostentatiously, and winked a conscious eye at the maids of earth. With such solid advantages as a bright audacious glance, a winning smile, and a well-turned figure, he was not backward in his demands upon their admiration, and it must be confessed, that men in all times have proved destructive with less material.
But he was an amiable rogue, not consciously built for evil, and he cheated the women not a whit more than they cheated him. He knew he was playing a game, and was fair enough to remember that there is honour among thieves. For the rest, he was fond of every sort of wayside stoppages, paid his bill ungrudgingly, in whatever coin demanded, like a gentleman, and clinked glasses cordially with artists, strollers, and such like vagabonds. The frock-coated individual alone inspired him with repugnance, and he held the trammels of respectability in horror. Whether nature or his art were responsible for a certain loose and merry generosity of spirit, I cannot say; but I am of opinion that, had his mind run to bank-books instead of paints, though his work might be of indifferent quality, he might have proved himself of sounder and more sordid disposition.
Even the brightest nature finds a shadow somewhere upon the shine, and the shade that dimmed the sun for Armand was his mother’s want of faith in his artistic capacities. He loved his mother fondly, and took refuge from her wounding scepticism in his conviction that women, by nature and training, are unfitted to comprehend or pronounce upon the niceties of art. They may be perfect in all things else, but they have not the artistic sense, and cannot descry true talent until they have been taught to do so. It has ever been the destiny of great men to be undervalued upon the domestic hearth, and ’tis a wise law of Nature to keep them evenly balanced, and set a limit to their inclination to assume airs. Thinking thus, he shook off the chill of unappreciated talent, and warmed himself back into the pleasant confidence that was the lad’s best baggage upon the road of life. For a moment an upbraiding word, a cold comment upon dear lips, might check his enthusiasm and cloud his mirthful glance, but a whistled bar of song, a smart stroke of pencil or brush, a glimpse of his becoming velvet jacket in a mirror, were enough to send hope blithely through his veins, and speed him carolling on the way to fame.
It chanced one morning that he was interrupted at his easel by a letter from that domestic unbeliever who cast the sole blot upon his artist’s sunshine. There was a certain haziness in Armand’s relations with art. He worked briskly enough at intervals, but he was naturally an idler. The attitude he preferred was that of uneager waiter upon inspiration, and he had a notion that the longer he waited, provided the intervals of rest were comfortably subject to distraction, the better the inspiration was likely to be. He had neither philosophy nor moral qualifications to fit him for the jog-trot of daily work. So that no interruption ever put him out, and no intruder ever found him other than unaffectedly glad to be intruded upon. Such a youth would of course attack his letters in the same spirit of hearty welcome that he fell upon his friends.
But as he sat and read, his bright face clouded, and his lips screwed and twisted themselves into a variety of grimaces. He had a thousand gestures and expressions at the service of his flying moods, and before he had come to the end of his mother’s letter, not one but had been summoned upon duty. The letter ran thus:—
MY DEAR SON,—It will, I hope, inspire you with a little common sense to learn that your cousin Bernard Francillon has just arrived from Vienna to take your place at the bank. I have had a long interview with your uncle, who makes no secret of his intentions, should you persist in wasting your youth and prospects in this extravagant fashion. And I cannot blame him, for his indulgence and patience have much exceeded my expectations. This absurd caprice of yours has lasted too long. You are no longer a boy, Armand, but a young man of twenty-three, and you have no right to behave like a silly child, who aspires to fly, instead of contentedly riding along in the solid family coach provided for him. If I had any confidence in your talent I might, as you do, build my hopes upon your future fame, and console myself for present disappointment in the faith that your sacrifice is not in vain. But even a mother cannot be so foolish as to believe that her son is going to turn out a Raphael because he has donned a velvet coat and bought a box of paints. Some natural talent and cultivation will help any young man to become a fair amateur, perhaps even a tenth-rate artist; but for such it is hardly worth while to wreck all worldly prospects. Take your father as an example. He did all things fairly well; he drew, painted, sang, composed, and wrote. What was the end of it? Failure all round. He had not the esteem of his commercial colleagues, while the artists, in whose society he delighted, indulged his tastes as those of an accomplished banker whose patronage might be useful to them. While he was wrecked upon versatility, you intend to throw away your life upon a single illusion. Whose will be the gain?
Your whim has lasted two years, and you cannot be blind to the little you have done in that time. You have not had any success to justify further perseverance. Then take your courage in both hands; assure yourself that it is wiser to be a good man of business than a bad artist; lock up your studio and come back to your proper place. If you do so at once, Bernard will have less chance of walking in your shoes. He is much too often at Marly, and seems to admire Marguerite; but I do not think a girl like Marguerite could possibly care for such a perfumed fop.
When you feel the itch for vagabondage and sketch-book, you can be off into the country, and it need never be known that your holidays are passed in any but the most correct fashion. As for your uncle, he will not endure paint-boxes or pencils about him. He is still bitter upon the remembrance of your father’s sins in office hours. I am told he used to draw caricatures on the blotting pads, and write verses on the fly-leaves of the account-books. He was much too frivolous for a banker, and I fear you have inherited his light and unbusinesslike manners. But be reasonable now, and come at once to your affectionate mother,
Poor Armand! The mention of Raphael in connection with the velvet coat and paint-box was a sore wound. It whipped the susceptible blood into his cheeks, for though sweet-tempered, a sneer was what he could not equably endure. Surely his mother might have found a tenderer way to say unpleasant things, if the performance of this duty can ever be necessary! And bitter to him was the assumption that his choice was a caprice without future or justification. Having swallowed his pill with a wry face, he was still in the middle of a subsequent fit of indigestion, when the door opened, and a young man in a linen blouse cried gaily: ‘It’s a case of the early bird on his matutinal round.’
‘Come in, since the worm is fool enough to be abroad. You may make a meal of him, my friend, and welcome, but a poor one, for he’s at this moment the sorriest worm alive.’