Under the Hill 5

Under the Hill 5

At eleven o'clock Fanfreluche got up and slipped off his dainty

night-dress.

 

His bathroom was the largest and perhaps the most beautiful apartment

in his splendid suite. The well-known engraving by Lorette that forms

the frontispiece to Millevoye's "Architecture du XVIII^me

siècle" will give you a better idea than any words of mine of the

construction and decoration of the room. Only in Lorette's engraving

the bath sunk into the middle of the floor is a little too small.

 

Fanfreluche stood for a moment like Narcissus gazing at his reflection

in the still scented water, and then just ruffling its smooth surface

with one foot, stepped elegantly into the cool basin and swam round

it twice very gracefully. However, it is not so much at the very bath

itself as in the drying and delicious frictions that a bather finds his

chiefest joys, and Helen had appointed her most tried attendants to

wait upon Fanfreluche. He was more than satisfied with their attention,

that aroused feelings within him almost amounting to gratitude, and

when the rites were ended any touch of home-sickness he might have

felt was utterly dispelled. After he had rested a little, and sipped

his chocolate, he wandered into the dressing-room, where, under the

direction of the superb Dancourt, his toilet was completed.

 

As pleased as Lord Foppington with his appearance, the Abbé tripped

off to bid good-morning to Helen. He found her in a sweet white muslin

frock, wandering upon the lawn, and plucking flowers to deck her

breakfast table. He kissed her lightly upon the neck.

 

"I'm just going to feed Adolphe," she said, pointing to a little

reticule of buns that hung from her arm. Adolphe was her pet unicorn.

"He is such a dear," she continued; "milk white all over, excepting his

nose, mouth, and nostrils. _This_ way." The unicorn had a very pretty

palace of its own made of green foliage and golden bars, a fitting

home for such a delicate and dainty beast. Ah, it was a splendid thing

to watch the white creature roaming in its artful cage, proud and

beautiful, knowing no mate, and coming to no hand except the queen's

itself. As Fanfreluche and Helen approached, Adolphe began prancing and

curvetting, pawing the soft turf with his ivory hoofs and flaunting his

tail like a gonfalon. Helen raised the latch and entered.

 

"You mustn't come in with me, Adolphe is so jealous," she said, turning

to the Abbé, who was following her, "but you can stand outside and look

on; Adolphe likes an audience." Then in her delicious fingers she broke

the spicy buns and with affectionate niceness breakfasted her snowy

pet. When the last crumbs had been scattered, Helen brushed her hands

together and pretended to leave the cage without taking any further

notice of Adolphe. Adolphe snorted.

 

AUBREY BEARDSLEY.

 

 

[Footnote 1: _The chef d'oeuvre, it seems to me, of an adorable and

impeccable master, who more than any other landscape-painter puts us

out of conceit with our cities, and makes us forget the country can be

graceless and dull and tiresome. That he should ever have been compared

unfavourably with Turner--the Wiertz of landscape-painting--seems

almost incredible. Corot is Claude's only worthy rival, but he does not

eclipse or supplant the earlier master. A painting of Corot's is like

an exquisite lyric poem, full of love and truth; whilst one of Claude's

recalls some noble eclogue glowing with rich concentrated thought._]

 

[Footnote 2: "_At an age," writes Dubonnet_, "_when girls are for the

most part well confirmed in all the hateful practices of coquetry, and

attend with gusto, rather than with distaste, the hideous desires and

terrible satisfactions of men."_

 

_All who would respire the perfumes of Saint Rose's sanctity, and enjoy

the story of the adorable intimacy that subsisted between her and Our

Lady, should read Mother Ursula's "Ineffable and Miraculous Life of

the Flower of Lima," published shortly after the canonization of Rose

by Pope Clement X. in_ 1671. "_Truly," exclaims the famous nun, "to

chronicle the girlhood of this holy virgin makes as delicate a task

as to trace the forms of some slim, sensitive plant, whose lightness,

sweetness, and simplicity defy and trouble the most cunning pencil."

Mother Ursula certainly acquits herself of the task with wonderful

delicacy and taste. A cheap reprint of the biography has lately been

brought out by Chaillot and Son._]

 

[Footnote 3: _A comedy ballet in one act by Philippe Savarat and

Titures de Schentefleur. The Marquis de Vandésir, who was present at

the first performance, has left us a short impression of it in his_

Mémoires:

 

"The curtain rose upon a scene of rare beauty, a remote Arcadian

valley, a delicious scrap of Tempe, gracious with cool woods and

watered with a little river as fresh and pastoral as a perfect fifth.

It was early morning and the re-arisen sun, like the prince in the

Sleeping Beauty, woke all the earth with his lips.

 

"In that golden embrace the night dews were caught up and made

splendid, the trees were awakened from their obscure dreams, the

slumber of the birds was broken, and all the flowers of the valley

rejoiced, forgetting their fear of the darkness.

 

"Suddenly to the music of pipe and horn a troop of satyrs stepped out

from the recesses of the woods bearing in their hands nuts and green

boughs and flowers and roots, and whatsoever the forest yielded, to

heap upon the altar of the mysterious Pan that stood in the middle of

the stage; and from the hills came down the shepherds and shepherdesses

leading their flocks and carrying garlands upon their crooks. Then

a rustic priest, white robed and venerable, came slowly across the

valley followed by a choir of radiant children. The scene was admirably

stage-managed and nothing could have been more varied yet harmonious

than this Arcadian group. The service was quaint and simple, but with

sufficient ritual to give the _corps de ballet_ an opportunity of

showing its dainty skill. The dancing of the satyrs was received with

huge favour, and when the priest raised his hand in final blessing, the

whole troop of worshippers made such an intricate and elegant exit,

that it was generally agreed that Titurel had never before shown so

fine an invention.

 

"Scarcely had the stage been empty for a moment, when Sporion entered,

followed by a brilliant rout of dandies and smart women. Sporion was a

tall, slim, depraved young man with a slight stoop, a troubled walk, an

oval impassable face with its olive skin drawn lightly over the bone,

strong, scarlet lips, long Japanese eyes, and a great gilt toupet.

Round his shoulders hung a high-collared satin cape of salmon pink with

long black ribbands untied and floating about his body. His coat of sea

green spotted muslin was caught in at the waist by a scarlet sash with

scalloped edges and frilled out over the hips for about six inches.

His trousers, loose and wrinkled, reached to the end of the calf, and

were brocaded down the sides and ruched magnificently at the ankles.

The stockings were of white kid with stalls for the toes, and had

delicate red sandals strapped over them. But his little hands, peeping

out from their frills, seemed quite the most insinuating things, such

supple fingers tapering to the point with tiny nails stained pink, such

unquenchable palms lined and mounted like Lord Fanny's in 'Love at all

Hazards,' and such blue-veined hairless backs! In his left hand he

carried a small lace handkerchief broidered with a coronet.

 

"As for his friends and followers, they made the most superb and

insolent crowd imaginable, but to catalogue the clothes they had on

would require a chapter as long as the famous tenth in Pénillière's

'History of Underlinen.' On the whole they looked a very distinguished

chorus.

 

"Sporion stepped forward and explained with swift and various gesture

that he and his friends were tired of the amusements, wearied with the

poor pleasures offered by the civil world, and had invaded the Arcadian

valley hoping to experience a new _frisson_ in the destruction of some

shepherd's or some satyr's _naïveté_, and the infusion of their venom

among the dwellers of the woods.

 

"The chorus assented with languid but expressive movements.

 

"Curious and not a little frightened at the arrival of the worldly

company, the sylvans began to peep nervously at those subtle souls

through the branches of the trees, and one or two fauns and a shepherd

or so crept out warily. Sporion and all the ladies and gentlemen made

enticing sounds and invited the rustic creatures with all the grace in

the world to come and join them. By little batches they came, lured by

the strange looks, by the scents and the drugs, and by the brilliant

clothes, and some ventured quite near, timorously fingering the

delicious textures of the stuffs. Then Sporion and each of his friends

took a satyr or a shepherdess or something by the hand and made the

preliminary steps of a courtly measure, for which the most admirable

combinations had been invented and the most charming music written. The

pastoral folk were entirely bewildered when they saw such restrained

and graceful movements, and made the most grotesque and futile efforts

to imitate them. Dio mio, a pretty sight! A charming effect too, was

obtained by the intermixture of stockinged calf and hairy leg, of rich

brocaded bodice and plain blouse, of tortured head-dress and loose

untutored locks.

 

"When the dance was ended the servants of Sporion brought on champagne,

and with many pirouettes poured it magnificently into slender glasses,

and tripped about plying those Arcadian mouths that had never before

tasted such a royal drink.

 

* * * * *

 

"Then the curtain fell with a pudic rapidity."]

 

[Footnote 4: _It is a thousand pities that concerts should only be

given either in the afternoon, when you are torpid, or in the evening,

when you are nervous. Surely you should assist at fine music as you

assist at the Mass--before noon--when your brain and heart are not too

troubled and tired with the secular influences of the growing day._]

 

[Illustrations: THE THREE MUSICIANS]

 

 

 

 

THE THREE MUSICIANS

 

 

Along the path that skirts the wood,

The three musicians wend their way,

Pleased with their thoughts, each other's mood,

Franz Himmel's