Confessions of a Young Man | Page 9

when the dusty darkness of the street is chequered by a passing glimpse
of light skirt or flying feather, and the moon looms like a magic lantern
out of the sky.
Now we seemed to live in fiacres and restaurants, and the afternoons
were filled with febrile impressions. Marshall had a friend in this street,
and another in that. It was only necessary for him to cry "Stop" to the
coachman, and to run up two or three flights of stairs....
"Madame--, est-elle chez elle?"
"Oui, Monsieur; si Monsieur veut se donner la peine d'entrer." And we
were shown into a handsomely furnished apartment. A lady would
enter hurriedly, and an animated discussion was begun. I did not know
French sufficiently well to follow the conversation, but I remember it
always commenced mon cher ami, and was plentifully sprinkled with
the phrase vous avez tort. The ladies themselves had only just returned
from Constantinople or Japan, and they were generally involved in
mysterious lawsuits, or were busily engaged in prosecuting claims for
several millions of francs against different foreign governments.
And just as I had watched the chorus girls and mummers, three years

ago, at the Globe Theatre, now, excited by a nervous curiosity, I
watched this world of Parisian adventurers and lights o' love. And this
craving for observation of manners, this instinct for the rapid notation
of gestures and words that epitomise a state of feeling, of attitudes that
mirror forth the soul, declared itself a main passion; and it grew and
strengthened, to the detriment of the other Art still so dear to me. With
the patience of a cat before a mouse-hole, I watched and listened,
picking one characteristic phrase out of hours of vain chatter, interested
and amused by an angry or loving glance. Like the midges that fret the
surface of a shadowy stream, these men and women seemed to me; and
though I laughed, danced, and made merry with them, I was not of
them. But with Marshall it was different: they were my amusement,
they were his necessary pleasure. And I knew of this distinction that
made twain our lives; and I reflected deeply upon it. Why could I not
live without an ever-present and acute consciousness of life? Why
could I not love, forgetful of the harsh ticking of the clock in the
perfumed silence of the chamber?
And so my friend became to me a study, a subject for dissection. The
general attitude of his mind and its various turns, all the apparent
contradictions, and how they could be explained, classified, and
reduced to one primary law, were to me a constant source of thought.
Our confidences knew no reserve. I say our confidences, because to
obtain confidences it is often necessary to confide. All we saw, heard,
read, or felt was the subject of mutual confidences: the transitory
emotion that a flush of colour and a bit of perspective awakens, the
blue tints that the sunsetting lends to a white dress, or the eternal
verities, death and love. But, although I tested every fibre of thought
and analysed every motive, I was very sincere in my friendship, and
very loyal in my admiration. Nor did my admiration wane when I
discovered that Marshall was shallow in his appreciations, superficial
in his judgments, that his talents did not pierce below the surface; il
avait se grand air; there was fascination in his very bearing, in his large,
soft, colourful eyes, and a go and dash in his dissipations that carried
you away.
To any one observing us at this time it would have seemed that I was

but a hanger-on, and a feeble imitator of Marshall. I took him to my
tailor's, and he advised me on the cut of my coats; he showed me how
to arrange my rooms, and I strove to copy his manner of speech and his
general bearing; and yet I knew very well indeed that mine was a rarer
and more original nature. I was willing to learn, that was all. There was
much that Marshall could teach me, and I used him without shame,
without stint. I used him as I have used all those with whom I have
been brought into close contact. Search my memory as I will, I cannot
recall a case of man or woman who ever occupied any considerable
part of my thoughts and did not contribute largely towards my moral or
physical welfare. In other words, and in very colloquial language, I
never had useless friends hanging about me. From this crude statement
of a signal fact, the thoughtless reader will at once judge me rapacious,
egotistical, false, fawning, mendacious. Well, I may be all this and
more, but not because all who have known me have rendered me