TOPAZ THE PORTRAIT-PAINTER.
AM his heir, I was his confidant, so that no one can better relate his history than myself.
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Born in a virgin forest in Brazil—where his mother rocked him on interlacing boughs—when quite young he was caught by Indian hunters and sold at Rio, with a collection of parrots, paroquets, humming-birds, and buffalo-skins. He was brought to Havre in a ship, where he became the pet of the sailors, who, in addition to teaching him to handle the ropes, made him acquainted with all manner of tricks. His sea-life was so full of fun and frolic, that he would never have regretted quitting his forest home had he not left the warm sunshine behind.
The captain of the ship, who had read “Voltaire,” called him Topaz, after Rustan’s good valet, because he had a bare, yellow face. Before arriving in port, Topaz had received an education similar to that of his fellow countryman on the barge, Vert-Vert, who shocked the nuns by his manner. That of Topaz was also decidedly briny, as was quite natural from his nautical experience. Once in France, he might easily have passed for a second Lazarelle de Tormes, or another Gil Blas, if one cared to name all the masters under which he studied up to the time of full-grown Monkeyhood.
Suffice it to say, that as a youth he lodged in an elegant boudoir in the rue Neuve-Saint-Georges, where he was the delight of a charming personage, who finished his education by treating him as a spoilt child. He led an easy life, and was happier than a prince. In an unlucky hour he bit the nose of a respectable old dotard called the Count, the protector of his fair mistress. This liberty so incensed the old gentleman, he at once declared that the lady must choose between him and the beast, one of the two must leave the house.
The tyranny of a rich, old husband prevailed, and Topaz was secretly sent to the studio of a young artist, to whom the lady had been sitting for her portrait.
This event, simple in itself, opened up for him a new career. Seated on a wooden form in place of a silken couch, eating crusts of stale bread and drinking plain water instead of orange syrup, Topaz was brought to well-doing by misery, the great teacher of morality and virtue, when it does not sink the sufferer deeper into the slough of debauchery and vice. Having nothing better to do, Topaz reflected on his precarious, dependent position, and his mind was filled with a longing for liberty, labour, and glory. He felt he had come to the critical point of his life, when it was necessary for him to choose a profession. No career seemed to offer the same freedom and boundless prospects as that followed by the successful artist. This became a settled conviction in his mind, and, like Pareja the slave of Velasquez, he set himself to picking up the secrets of the limner’s art, and might be seen daily perched on the top of the easel, watching each mixture of colour, and each stroke of the brush. As soon as his master’s back was turned, he descended, and going over the work with a light hand, and a second coat of colours, retired one or two paces to admire the effect. During such moments he might be heard muttering between his teeth, the words used by Corregio, and later by the crowd of youthful geniuses with which Paris is inundated: Ed io anche son pittore. One day, when his vanity caused him to forget his usual prudence, the master caught him at work. He had entered his studio elated with joy, having received a commission to paint a cartoon of the Deluge, for a church at Boulogne-sur-Mer, where it rains all the year round. Nothing renders one so generous as self-satisfaction; instead, therefore, of taking the mahl-stick and beating his disciple, “In good faith,” he said, like a second Velasquez, “since you wish to be an artist, I give you your liberty, and, instead of my servant, I make you my pupil.”
Here Topaz became an historical pilferer; he arranged his hair like the powdered wig of a country priest, caught together the straggling hairs of his beard into a point, put on a high-peaked hat, dressed himself in a tight-fitting coat over which the ruffle of his shirt fell in folds, and, in short, tried to look as much as possible like a portrait of Van Dyck. Thus attired, with his portfolio under his arm, and colour-box in hand, he began to frequent the schools. But, alas! like so many apprentice artists, who are men with all their faculties fully developed, Topaz followed the empty dreams of his ambition, rather than the teaching of common sense. It was not long before he found this out. When the works of his master were not available, he had to begin with the bare canvas, and unaided lay in outline, form, light, shadow, and colour; when, in fact, instead of imitation, originality and talent were required, then, alas! good-bye to the visions of Topaz. It was no good his working, perspiring, worrying, knocking his head, tearing his beard. Pegasus, always restive, refused to carry him to the Helicon of fortune and renown. In plain English, he did nothing worth the materials wasted in its production: masters and pupils urged him to choose some other means of making a living.