TOPAZTHEPORTRAIT-PAINTER.IAM his heir, I was his confidant, so that no one can better relate his history than myself.———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 hisfellow 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, havingreceived 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.“Be a mason, or a shoemaker; your talent lies more in the direction of trade!” It was in truth a pity that Topaz—full-grown ape as he was—should have been the slave of his narrow pride and vanity. That he should have aspired to fill a grand, generous, imposing, humanlike roll. I have often heard him say he would follow the example of the men of the Middle Ages, study medicine among the Arabs; and then return to teach it to the Christians. His foolish ambition was to transmit, from cultured men to apes, the knowledge of art, and, by idealising his fellows in portraiture, to place them on the level of the Lords of Creation. His chagrin was as profound as his project had been visionary. Wounded by the dreadful fall his vanity had sustained, sulky, ashamed, discontented with the world and with himself, Topaz, losing his sleep, appetite, and vivacity, fell into a languishing illnesswhich threatened his life. Happily he had no physician, Nature fought out the battle for herself, and won.About this time Daguerre, a scenic artist, completed the discovery which has rendered his name famous. He made an important step in science by fixing the photographic image, so that objects, animate and inanimate, might be caught on a silver plate. Thus photography became the handmaid of science and art. I had just made the acquaintance of a musical genius—human—to whom nature had refused both voice and ear; he sang out of tune, danced out of time, and for all that, was passionately fond of music. He had masters for the piano, flute, hunting-horn, and accordion. He tried the different methods of Wilhem, Paston, Cheve, and Jocotot. None of them answered, he could neither produce time nor harmony; what did he do in order to satisfy his taste? He bought a barrel-organ and took his money’s worth out of it, by turning the handle night and day. He certainly had the wrist of a musician.It was a similar expedient which brought back Topaz to life, with its hopes of fame, fortune, and apostolic insignia. The Jesuits and Turks say the end justifies the means, so, acting on this philosophic saying, Topaz adroitly stole a purse from a rich financier who was sleeping in his master’s studio, while the latter was trying to paint his portrait. With this treasure he bought his barrel-organ, a photographic camera, and learning how to use it, he all at once became artist, painter, and man of science.This talent acquired, added to a brace of fine names, he felt already half way towards reaching the coveted goal. To realise his hopes, he took his passage at Havre in a ship about to cross the Atlantic, and after a prosperous voyage, again set foot on the shore where, only a few years before, he had embarked for France. What a change had come over his position. From Monkey-boy he had become Monkey-man. In place of a prisoner of war he had become free, and above all, from an ignorant brute—the condition in which Nature sent him into the world—he had developed into a sort of civilised ape. His heart beat fast as he landed on his native soil. It was sweet to visit familiar scenes, after so long an absence. Without losing so much time as I take to write, he started off, camera on back, to seek the grand solitudes of his infancy, where he hoped to become the pioneer of progress. In his secret heart—he owned it to me—there was still the burning desire for fame. He hoped to create a sensation, to be regarded asmore than a common beast to enjoy the victory he would so easily win, over the natives of the country, by his title of Illustrious Traveller, backed by his knowledge and his wonderful machine. These were his true sentiments, but he cherished the delusion that he was impelled onwards by the irresistible force which urges forward the predestined ones—the leaders of mankind—to play their part in the world. Arrived at the scene of his birth, without even looking up his friends and relatives, Topaz pitched his camp in a vast glade, a sort of public common which Nature had reserved in the forest. There, aided by a black-faced Sapajo called Ebony, after the other servant of Rustan, who became his slave after the manner of men, who find in colour a sufficient reason for drawing the line which separates master from slave, Topaz set up an elegant hut of branches beneath an ample shade of banana leaves, and above his door he placed a signboard, bearing the fable, “Topaz, painter after the Parisian fashion;” and on the door itself, in smaller letters, “Entrance to the Studio.” After sending a number of magpies to announce his arrival, to all the country round, he opened his shop.In order to place his services within the reach of all—as no currency had ever yet been instituted—Topaz adopted the ancient custom of receiving payment in kind. A hundred nuts, a bunch of bananas, six cocoa-nuts, and twenty sugar-canes, was the price of a portrait. As the inhabitants of the Brazilian forest were still in the golden age, they knew nothing whatever about property, heritage, or the rights of mine and thine. They knew that the earth and its fruits were free to all, and that a good living might be picked off the trees, and an indifferent living off the ground. Topaz had many difficulties to contend against; by no means the least was the fact that no one is great in his own country, and especially among his own friends. The first visits he received were from monkeys, a quick and curious, but also a very spiteful, race.Hardly had they seen the camera in action before they set to work to make spurious imitations of the dark box. Instead of admiring, honouring, and recompensing their brother for his toil in bringing this art-treasure to their country, they strove to discover his secret, and reap the profits of his labour. Here, then, was our artist at war with counterfeiters. Happily it was not a simple case of reprinting an English book in Germany or America. The apes might puzzle their brains, and toil with their four feet, and even combine one with theother—amongst them, as elsewhere, one can easily find accomplices to carry out a bad scheme,—all they could do, was to make a box and cover like the camera and focusing cloth of Topaz; but they had neither lens nor chemicals. After many trials and as many failures, they became furious, and planned the ruin of Topaz; thus proving the truth of the saying, “One must look for enemies among one’s fellow-countrymen, friends, and relations; even in one’s ownhouse”—“Araña; quien te araño Otra araña como yo.”But no matter, merit makes its own way in defiance of envy and hatred, and finds its true level like oil that rises to the surface of water. It so happened that a personage of importance, an animal of weight, a Boar in fact, passing through the glade and seeing the signboard, paused to reflect. It seemed to this Boar that one need not of necessity be a quack or charlatan, because one comes from a distance, or because one offers something new and startling; also that a wise, moderate, impartial spirit always takes the trouble to examine things before condemning them. Another and much more private reason tempted the thoughtful Boar to test the stranger’s talent; for side by side with the great actions of life there is frequently some petty, contemptible secret, and personal motive which, as it were, supplies the mainspring of action. This little motive is always studiously concealed, even from its owner’s view, like the mainspring of a watch in its shining case. But the little spring, true to its work, marks the time on the dial, the hour, minute, and second, which heralds the birth of all that is noble, and all that is mean in life. This applies with kindred force to the instinct of brutes, and aspirations of men.Our Boar was a lineal descendant of the companion of Ulysses who, touched by the wand of Circé, is supposed to have addressed his captainthus—“How am I changed? My beauty as a boar I’ll prove,How knowest thou, one form is worst, another best?Grace and good breeding are in my form express’d,At least it has been said so by those who know.”He was a trifle foppish and very much in love. It was to make a gift to his betrothed he wished for a portrait.Entering the studio he paid down double the usual price, as this Boar was the most liberal member of his government. He then seated himself solidly down in his appointed place where his steadiness andunconcern rendered him a capital subject for the camera. Topaz on his part exercised all his skill in posing, lighting, and photographing. The portrait was a perfect gem, his lordship was delighted. The littleimage seemed to reduce his bulk in every way, while the silvery grey of the metallic plate replaced with advantage the sombre monotony of his dark coat. It was a most agreeable surprise, and fast as his bulk and dignity would permit him, he hastened to present the picture to his idol. The loved one was in rapture, and by a peculiar feminine instinct she first suspended the miniature round her neck, then, as instinctively, called together her relatives and friends to form an admiring circle around her lover’s portrait. Thanks to her enthusiasm, before the day was over, all the animal inhabitants for miles round were appraised of the marvellous talent of Topaz, who soon became quite the rage. His cabin was visited at all hours of the day, the camera was never for a moment idle. As for Sapajo he had more than enough to do in preparing the plates for every new comer. With the exception of the apes there was not a single creature in earth, air, or water, who had not sat for a likeness to the famous Topaz.One of his chief patrons was a Royal bird, the sovereign of a winged principality, who arrived surrounded by a brilliant staff of general officers and aide-de-camps. The artist was greatly annoyed by the remarks of a group of obsequious courtiers who bent over the desk alternately praising the prince, and criticising the portraits. The finished work, nevertheless, afforded satisfaction to the potentate who, proud of his tufted crown and brilliant feathers, gazed fondly down upon his image.His conduct was quite different from that of the Boar. Although the king was accompanied by a splendid pea-hen, his wife by morganatic marriage, he himself retained the portrait, and, like Narcissus, before the fountain, fell in love with his own image. Happy are they who love themselves. They need not fear coldness, or disdain. They can feel no grief of absence, or pangs of jealousy. If the sayings of human philosophers are true, love is only a form of self-esteem which leaves its habitual abode, seeking to extend its dominion over the passions of another.To return to Topaz, he touched up his portraits to suit the taste and vanity of his customers. In this, it must be owned, he did not always succeed. Some of his clients were all beak, and had no focus in them; others could not sit steady for a second, the result was, they figured on the plate with two heads, and a group of hands like Vishnu, the heathen god. They jerked their tails at some fatal moment, rendering them invisible in the photograph. Pelicans thoughttheir beaks too long. Cockatoos complained of the shortness of theirs. Goats said their beards had been tampered with. Boars held that their eyes were too piercing. Squirrels wanted action. Chameleons changing colour; while the donkey thought his portrait incomplete without the sound of his mellifluous voice. Most comical of all—the owl, who had shut his eyes to the sun, maintained that he was represented stone-blind, thus destroying his chief attraction. In the laboratory of Topaz, as in the painter’s studio, might be seen constantly in attendance a troop of young lions, the sons of the aristocracy, who came to loiter away their leisure. They prided themselves in being judges of art, called all the muscles of the face by their anatomical names; and spoke of graceful sweeps, handling of the brush, tooling, modelling, breadth of expression, &c., &c. Under pretext of enjoying the society of the artist, they twitted and laughed at his clients. To the crow, if he showed face at the entrance with his glossy black coat, and gouty, magisterial step, they cried inchorus—“Oh! good morning, Mr. Crow, come in, nothing shows up so well as a good, black coat.” Then they gently reminded him of his adventure with the fox and the stolen cheese.One day a good fellow, a duck, left his reeds and swamps, and came with much ado to the studio, desirous of seeing his image to greater perfection than in his native stream. As soon as he appeared, one of the clique approached and taking off his cap,said—“Ah, sir, you must be a great observer, you constantly move from side to side. What is the news?”No one escaped their sarcasm; many were offended, many more lost their temper, and as for Topaz, he lost some of his best customers. But he really could not afford to offend the lions, as they belonged to good families, and were careful to flatter his vanity; besides, they were by no means bad fellows, when in their generous moods.In spite of these petty troubles and annoyances—who is exempt from them in this world?—Topaz filled his barns; and his fame increased, keeping pace with his fortune. He perceived that the time had arrived for him to fill a larger field. His own industry had secured for him riches and honour, but the dream of his life was yet unfulfilled. Why should he not embrace the golden opportunity, and become a great teacher, a benefactor of his kind? His fame had reached the ears of a distant potentate, an Elephant-sovereign whose territory was somewhere—no matter where—it had never found its way into anymap; no civilised being had ever set foot on his soil. This Elephant sent an embassy to the Parisian painter, charged with the mission of bringing Topaz to his court. He was an elephantine Francis I., calling to his presence another Léonardo da Vinci. His brilliant offers were at once accepted. This is how absolute monarchs proceed in their caprices, Topaz was promised, besides a considerable share of the native produce, the title of Cacique, and the ribbon of the ivory tooth. The artist set off mounted on a horse, and followed by a mule, bearing his faithful Sapajo and his precious machine. He at length arrived without accident at the court of the Sultan Poussal. Topaz was at once introduced to his Royal Highness, by the usual Minister of Rites and Ceremonies. The artist prostrated himself before the potentate, who gracefully raised him with the point of his proboscis, and allowed him to kiss one of his enormous feet, the same foot which later—but I must not anticipate events. His Massive Majesty was in such a ferment of impatient curiosity, that before taking any rest or refreshment, Topaz was requested to unpack his box and set to work without delay. He accordingly prepared his instrument, heated his drugs, and selected his finest plate for the royal image. The plate was small, but it was necessary that the entire elephant should figure on its surface.“Good,” said Topaz, “since it is a miniature His Majesty requires, I am certain he will be delighted with the result” (Topaz recalled his early experience with the Boar).He placed the king as far as possible from the camera so as to diminish his image and fill the plate, after which he conducted his operations with the nicest care. All the courtiers awaited the result with anxiety as profound as if it were the casting of a statue. The sun was scorching. After a few minutes the artist took up the plate lightly, and triumphantly presented it to the gaze of His Majesty; hardly had the king cast his eyes upon it, when he burst into a loud laugh, and without knowing why, all the courtiers joined in the royal hilarity. It was like an Olympian scene.“What is this?” roared the Elephant as soon as he could speak. “That is the portrait of a rat, and you presume to say it is me? You are joking, my friend” (the laughter still continued), “why,” continued the king after silence had been restored, his tone getting gradually more and more severe, “it is owing to my great size and strength that I have been chosen king. Were I to exhibit this miserable portrait to my subjects they would imagine I was an insect, a weak, hardlyperceptible, creature, only fit to be dethroned and crushed. The interest of the State, sir, forbids my taking this course,” saying which, he hurled the plate at the artist, who bowed down to the ground, not so much from humility as to escape a shock that would have been fatal tohim. “I should have tested the truth of the stories so freely circulated about you.”The king and his ministers were becoming furious.“Ugh! you are one of the hawkers of inventions and secrets, one of those innovators we have heard so much of, who prowl about seeking what good old institution they can devour; fellows who would bring down our constitution, and heaven itself about our ears, with their infernal machines. Bah!”Here the mighty king stepped over the still prostrate body of the artist, and approaching the innocent machine—in his eyes big with the darkest plots ever brewed in the heart of a State—full of a no less legitimate wrath than Don Quixote, when breaking the marionettes of Master Peter, he raised his formidable foot, and crushed the camera to atoms.Adieu fortune, honour, fame, civilisation! Adieu art! adieu artist! At the sound of the smashing which announced his doom, Topaz sprang to his feet, and starting off like a man, ended his sorrows in the waters of the Amazon.He who became his heir and confidant was Ebony, the poor black Sapajo, who came over to Europe and studied at one of the universities, in order to qualify himself to write this history.
I
AM his heir, I was his confidant, so that no one can better relate his history than myself.
———
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 hisfellow 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, havingreceived 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.
“Be a mason, or a shoemaker; your talent lies more in the direction of trade!” It was in truth a pity that Topaz—full-grown ape as he was—should have been the slave of his narrow pride and vanity. That he should have aspired to fill a grand, generous, imposing, humanlike roll. I have often heard him say he would follow the example of the men of the Middle Ages, study medicine among the Arabs; and then return to teach it to the Christians. His foolish ambition was to transmit, from cultured men to apes, the knowledge of art, and, by idealising his fellows in portraiture, to place them on the level of the Lords of Creation. His chagrin was as profound as his project had been visionary. Wounded by the dreadful fall his vanity had sustained, sulky, ashamed, discontented with the world and with himself, Topaz, losing his sleep, appetite, and vivacity, fell into a languishing illnesswhich threatened his life. Happily he had no physician, Nature fought out the battle for herself, and won.
About this time Daguerre, a scenic artist, completed the discovery which has rendered his name famous. He made an important step in science by fixing the photographic image, so that objects, animate and inanimate, might be caught on a silver plate. Thus photography became the handmaid of science and art. I had just made the acquaintance of a musical genius—human—to whom nature had refused both voice and ear; he sang out of tune, danced out of time, and for all that, was passionately fond of music. He had masters for the piano, flute, hunting-horn, and accordion. He tried the different methods of Wilhem, Paston, Cheve, and Jocotot. None of them answered, he could neither produce time nor harmony; what did he do in order to satisfy his taste? He bought a barrel-organ and took his money’s worth out of it, by turning the handle night and day. He certainly had the wrist of a musician.
It was a similar expedient which brought back Topaz to life, with its hopes of fame, fortune, and apostolic insignia. The Jesuits and Turks say the end justifies the means, so, acting on this philosophic saying, Topaz adroitly stole a purse from a rich financier who was sleeping in his master’s studio, while the latter was trying to paint his portrait. With this treasure he bought his barrel-organ, a photographic camera, and learning how to use it, he all at once became artist, painter, and man of science.
This talent acquired, added to a brace of fine names, he felt already half way towards reaching the coveted goal. To realise his hopes, he took his passage at Havre in a ship about to cross the Atlantic, and after a prosperous voyage, again set foot on the shore where, only a few years before, he had embarked for France. What a change had come over his position. From Monkey-boy he had become Monkey-man. In place of a prisoner of war he had become free, and above all, from an ignorant brute—the condition in which Nature sent him into the world—he had developed into a sort of civilised ape. His heart beat fast as he landed on his native soil. It was sweet to visit familiar scenes, after so long an absence. Without losing so much time as I take to write, he started off, camera on back, to seek the grand solitudes of his infancy, where he hoped to become the pioneer of progress. In his secret heart—he owned it to me—there was still the burning desire for fame. He hoped to create a sensation, to be regarded asmore than a common beast to enjoy the victory he would so easily win, over the natives of the country, by his title of Illustrious Traveller, backed by his knowledge and his wonderful machine. These were his true sentiments, but he cherished the delusion that he was impelled onwards by the irresistible force which urges forward the predestined ones—the leaders of mankind—to play their part in the world. Arrived at the scene of his birth, without even looking up his friends and relatives, Topaz pitched his camp in a vast glade, a sort of public common which Nature had reserved in the forest. There, aided by a black-faced Sapajo called Ebony, after the other servant of Rustan, who became his slave after the manner of men, who find in colour a sufficient reason for drawing the line which separates master from slave, Topaz set up an elegant hut of branches beneath an ample shade of banana leaves, and above his door he placed a signboard, bearing the fable, “Topaz, painter after the Parisian fashion;” and on the door itself, in smaller letters, “Entrance to the Studio.” After sending a number of magpies to announce his arrival, to all the country round, he opened his shop.
In order to place his services within the reach of all—as no currency had ever yet been instituted—Topaz adopted the ancient custom of receiving payment in kind. A hundred nuts, a bunch of bananas, six cocoa-nuts, and twenty sugar-canes, was the price of a portrait. As the inhabitants of the Brazilian forest were still in the golden age, they knew nothing whatever about property, heritage, or the rights of mine and thine. They knew that the earth and its fruits were free to all, and that a good living might be picked off the trees, and an indifferent living off the ground. Topaz had many difficulties to contend against; by no means the least was the fact that no one is great in his own country, and especially among his own friends. The first visits he received were from monkeys, a quick and curious, but also a very spiteful, race.
Hardly had they seen the camera in action before they set to work to make spurious imitations of the dark box. Instead of admiring, honouring, and recompensing their brother for his toil in bringing this art-treasure to their country, they strove to discover his secret, and reap the profits of his labour. Here, then, was our artist at war with counterfeiters. Happily it was not a simple case of reprinting an English book in Germany or America. The apes might puzzle their brains, and toil with their four feet, and even combine one with theother—amongst them, as elsewhere, one can easily find accomplices to carry out a bad scheme,—all they could do, was to make a box and cover like the camera and focusing cloth of Topaz; but they had neither lens nor chemicals. After many trials and as many failures, they became furious, and planned the ruin of Topaz; thus proving the truth of the saying, “One must look for enemies among one’s fellow-countrymen, friends, and relations; even in one’s ownhouse”—
“Araña; quien te araño Otra araña como yo.”
“Araña; quien te araño Otra araña como yo.”
“Araña; quien te araño Otra araña como yo.”
But no matter, merit makes its own way in defiance of envy and hatred, and finds its true level like oil that rises to the surface of water. It so happened that a personage of importance, an animal of weight, a Boar in fact, passing through the glade and seeing the signboard, paused to reflect. It seemed to this Boar that one need not of necessity be a quack or charlatan, because one comes from a distance, or because one offers something new and startling; also that a wise, moderate, impartial spirit always takes the trouble to examine things before condemning them. Another and much more private reason tempted the thoughtful Boar to test the stranger’s talent; for side by side with the great actions of life there is frequently some petty, contemptible secret, and personal motive which, as it were, supplies the mainspring of action. This little motive is always studiously concealed, even from its owner’s view, like the mainspring of a watch in its shining case. But the little spring, true to its work, marks the time on the dial, the hour, minute, and second, which heralds the birth of all that is noble, and all that is mean in life. This applies with kindred force to the instinct of brutes, and aspirations of men.
Our Boar was a lineal descendant of the companion of Ulysses who, touched by the wand of Circé, is supposed to have addressed his captainthus—
“How am I changed? My beauty as a boar I’ll prove,How knowest thou, one form is worst, another best?Grace and good breeding are in my form express’d,At least it has been said so by those who know.”
“How am I changed? My beauty as a boar I’ll prove,How knowest thou, one form is worst, another best?Grace and good breeding are in my form express’d,At least it has been said so by those who know.”
“How am I changed? My beauty as a boar I’ll prove,
How knowest thou, one form is worst, another best?
Grace and good breeding are in my form express’d,
At least it has been said so by those who know.”
He was a trifle foppish and very much in love. It was to make a gift to his betrothed he wished for a portrait.
Entering the studio he paid down double the usual price, as this Boar was the most liberal member of his government. He then seated himself solidly down in his appointed place where his steadiness andunconcern rendered him a capital subject for the camera. Topaz on his part exercised all his skill in posing, lighting, and photographing. The portrait was a perfect gem, his lordship was delighted. The littleimage seemed to reduce his bulk in every way, while the silvery grey of the metallic plate replaced with advantage the sombre monotony of his dark coat. It was a most agreeable surprise, and fast as his bulk and dignity would permit him, he hastened to present the picture to his idol. The loved one was in rapture, and by a peculiar feminine instinct she first suspended the miniature round her neck, then, as instinctively, called together her relatives and friends to form an admiring circle around her lover’s portrait. Thanks to her enthusiasm, before the day was over, all the animal inhabitants for miles round were appraised of the marvellous talent of Topaz, who soon became quite the rage. His cabin was visited at all hours of the day, the camera was never for a moment idle. As for Sapajo he had more than enough to do in preparing the plates for every new comer. With the exception of the apes there was not a single creature in earth, air, or water, who had not sat for a likeness to the famous Topaz.
One of his chief patrons was a Royal bird, the sovereign of a winged principality, who arrived surrounded by a brilliant staff of general officers and aide-de-camps. The artist was greatly annoyed by the remarks of a group of obsequious courtiers who bent over the desk alternately praising the prince, and criticising the portraits. The finished work, nevertheless, afforded satisfaction to the potentate who, proud of his tufted crown and brilliant feathers, gazed fondly down upon his image.
His conduct was quite different from that of the Boar. Although the king was accompanied by a splendid pea-hen, his wife by morganatic marriage, he himself retained the portrait, and, like Narcissus, before the fountain, fell in love with his own image. Happy are they who love themselves. They need not fear coldness, or disdain. They can feel no grief of absence, or pangs of jealousy. If the sayings of human philosophers are true, love is only a form of self-esteem which leaves its habitual abode, seeking to extend its dominion over the passions of another.
To return to Topaz, he touched up his portraits to suit the taste and vanity of his customers. In this, it must be owned, he did not always succeed. Some of his clients were all beak, and had no focus in them; others could not sit steady for a second, the result was, they figured on the plate with two heads, and a group of hands like Vishnu, the heathen god. They jerked their tails at some fatal moment, rendering them invisible in the photograph. Pelicans thoughttheir beaks too long. Cockatoos complained of the shortness of theirs. Goats said their beards had been tampered with. Boars held that their eyes were too piercing. Squirrels wanted action. Chameleons changing colour; while the donkey thought his portrait incomplete without the sound of his mellifluous voice. Most comical of all—the owl, who had shut his eyes to the sun, maintained that he was represented stone-blind, thus destroying his chief attraction. In the laboratory of Topaz, as in the painter’s studio, might be seen constantly in attendance a troop of young lions, the sons of the aristocracy, who came to loiter away their leisure. They prided themselves in being judges of art, called all the muscles of the face by their anatomical names; and spoke of graceful sweeps, handling of the brush, tooling, modelling, breadth of expression, &c., &c. Under pretext of enjoying the society of the artist, they twitted and laughed at his clients. To the crow, if he showed face at the entrance with his glossy black coat, and gouty, magisterial step, they cried inchorus—
“Oh! good morning, Mr. Crow, come in, nothing shows up so well as a good, black coat.” Then they gently reminded him of his adventure with the fox and the stolen cheese.
One day a good fellow, a duck, left his reeds and swamps, and came with much ado to the studio, desirous of seeing his image to greater perfection than in his native stream. As soon as he appeared, one of the clique approached and taking off his cap,said—
“Ah, sir, you must be a great observer, you constantly move from side to side. What is the news?”
No one escaped their sarcasm; many were offended, many more lost their temper, and as for Topaz, he lost some of his best customers. But he really could not afford to offend the lions, as they belonged to good families, and were careful to flatter his vanity; besides, they were by no means bad fellows, when in their generous moods.
In spite of these petty troubles and annoyances—who is exempt from them in this world?—Topaz filled his barns; and his fame increased, keeping pace with his fortune. He perceived that the time had arrived for him to fill a larger field. His own industry had secured for him riches and honour, but the dream of his life was yet unfulfilled. Why should he not embrace the golden opportunity, and become a great teacher, a benefactor of his kind? His fame had reached the ears of a distant potentate, an Elephant-sovereign whose territory was somewhere—no matter where—it had never found its way into anymap; no civilised being had ever set foot on his soil. This Elephant sent an embassy to the Parisian painter, charged with the mission of bringing Topaz to his court. He was an elephantine Francis I., calling to his presence another Léonardo da Vinci. His brilliant offers were at once accepted. This is how absolute monarchs proceed in their caprices, Topaz was promised, besides a considerable share of the native produce, the title of Cacique, and the ribbon of the ivory tooth. The artist set off mounted on a horse, and followed by a mule, bearing his faithful Sapajo and his precious machine. He at length arrived without accident at the court of the Sultan Poussal. Topaz was at once introduced to his Royal Highness, by the usual Minister of Rites and Ceremonies. The artist prostrated himself before the potentate, who gracefully raised him with the point of his proboscis, and allowed him to kiss one of his enormous feet, the same foot which later—but I must not anticipate events. His Massive Majesty was in such a ferment of impatient curiosity, that before taking any rest or refreshment, Topaz was requested to unpack his box and set to work without delay. He accordingly prepared his instrument, heated his drugs, and selected his finest plate for the royal image. The plate was small, but it was necessary that the entire elephant should figure on its surface.
“Good,” said Topaz, “since it is a miniature His Majesty requires, I am certain he will be delighted with the result” (Topaz recalled his early experience with the Boar).
He placed the king as far as possible from the camera so as to diminish his image and fill the plate, after which he conducted his operations with the nicest care. All the courtiers awaited the result with anxiety as profound as if it were the casting of a statue. The sun was scorching. After a few minutes the artist took up the plate lightly, and triumphantly presented it to the gaze of His Majesty; hardly had the king cast his eyes upon it, when he burst into a loud laugh, and without knowing why, all the courtiers joined in the royal hilarity. It was like an Olympian scene.
“What is this?” roared the Elephant as soon as he could speak. “That is the portrait of a rat, and you presume to say it is me? You are joking, my friend” (the laughter still continued), “why,” continued the king after silence had been restored, his tone getting gradually more and more severe, “it is owing to my great size and strength that I have been chosen king. Were I to exhibit this miserable portrait to my subjects they would imagine I was an insect, a weak, hardlyperceptible, creature, only fit to be dethroned and crushed. The interest of the State, sir, forbids my taking this course,” saying which, he hurled the plate at the artist, who bowed down to the ground, not so much from humility as to escape a shock that would have been fatal tohim. “I should have tested the truth of the stories so freely circulated about you.”
The king and his ministers were becoming furious.
“Ugh! you are one of the hawkers of inventions and secrets, one of those innovators we have heard so much of, who prowl about seeking what good old institution they can devour; fellows who would bring down our constitution, and heaven itself about our ears, with their infernal machines. Bah!”
Here the mighty king stepped over the still prostrate body of the artist, and approaching the innocent machine—in his eyes big with the darkest plots ever brewed in the heart of a State—full of a no less legitimate wrath than Don Quixote, when breaking the marionettes of Master Peter, he raised his formidable foot, and crushed the camera to atoms.
Adieu fortune, honour, fame, civilisation! Adieu art! adieu artist! At the sound of the smashing which announced his doom, Topaz sprang to his feet, and starting off like a man, ended his sorrows in the waters of the Amazon.
He who became his heir and confidant was Ebony, the poor black Sapajo, who came over to Europe and studied at one of the universities, in order to qualify himself to write this history.