Democratic Sentinel, Volume 17, Number 32, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 August 1893 — POOR JOBINARD. [ARTICLE]

POOR JOBINARD.

It’s 20 years since that time. I was a fight-hearted boy then—a boy of 20. I lived in Paris, and I studied Art. Being an artist, I always spelled Art with a capital A. I have other things to think of besides Art now. I have to think of painting what the public will buy. I have to make it pay—l have made it pay. But it is not about myself I waut to talk; it is of Orson—of Orson the Hirsute, Orson the Unrelenting, Orson the Hater of Art. Of course his name wasn’t Orson. His real name was Jobinard, and he lived at the corner of the Rue de i’Ancienne Comedie, did this uncompromising grocer, this well-to-do Esau of the Quartier Latin, this man who hated Art, artists, and. above all, Art students with a peculiar ferocity. A jUQibiade Jobinard had reason to dislike Art students. They had a nasty way of getting into his debt, but Jobiaard too!? the buH by the horns—he gave no more credit. “Ma foil" he would say, with a supercilious sneer, “Credit is dead, my good poung sir. He doesn’t live here any longer. He is dead and buried.” And then one had to go empty away, (t had been so bandy in the good old days just to run into Jobinard’s for whatever one wanted, and—well, “stick it'up.” You see you could get an entire meal at Jobinard’s, one of those little iham boneless hams; they’ve quite enough on them for four. Tinned provisions in inexhaustible variety, wines from 75 centimes upward, liqueurs, des»ert, even in the shape of cheeses of all lorts, almonds and raisins, grapes and peaches. It was excessively convenient. When one was hard up, one dealt with Jobinard, and it was put down to the Account. When one was in funds, one lined and breakfasted at a restaurant And left Jobinard’s severely alone. But now all was changed. Mile. Amenaide was an uncommonly prettv girl, ind we were all desperately head over heels in love with her. By “we” I mean lhe Art students, but of all the Art students that were desperately in love with Mile. Amenaide, Daburon, the sculptor, was the most demonstrative. Jobinard hated Daburon with a deadly hatred because Daburon never expended more than ten centimes at a time. It was the society of Mile. Amenaide that Daburon hungered for, and he got it because he was entitled to it, being a purchaser. Mile. Amenaide was Jobinard’s cashier, ft was a large shop, and there were several assistants, but all moneys were paid to Mile. Amenaide, the cashier, who sat in s glass box underneath the great chiming' clock.

Daburon, the sculptor, would enter the Ehop, nod in a cavalier manner to Jobinard, as though he were the very dust beneath his feet; theu he,would look at Mile. Amenaide, raise his hat with his right hand, place his left upon his heart and make her a low bow; then he would pretend to blow her a kiss from the tips of his fingers, as though he were & circus rider; then he would take up a box of matches or some other peculiarly inexpensive article. “Have the kindness to wrap that up carefully for me in paper," he would remark in a patronizing manner. Then he would march up to Mile. Amenaide with the air of an Alexander—you could almost hear the tune of “See the Conquering Hero Comes” playing as you saw him do it. He would pay his 10 centimes and whisper some compliment into the ear of Mile. Amenaide. Then he would receive his purchase from the hand of M. Jobinard in a magnificent and condescending manner. Then he would strike a ridiculous attitude of exaggerated admiration and stare at the unhappy grocer as though he were one of the seven wonders of tbe world. “What a bust!” or “What arms!” or ‘•What muscularity!” he would say, and then he would heave a sigh and swagger out of the shop. Jobinard, who was a particularly ugly, thickset, hairy little man, used at first rather to resent these references to his personal advantages. His four assistants and his cashier would titter, and Jobinard used to blush, but at length tho poor fellow fell into the snare laid for him by the villain DaburoD. He got to believe himself the perfect type of manly beauty. When a Frenchman ha* once come to this conclusion, there is no folly of w’hich he is not ready The fact is* Daburon hnd passed the word round- The Art st identi, male

and female, invariably stared appreciatively at the little, hairy, thickset Jobinard as though he were the glass of fash■on and the mold of form. Jobinard now began to give himself airs. He swaggered about the shop, he exhibited himself in the doorway, he posed and attitudinized all day long, and then we. began to make it rather warm for Jobinard. “Ah, M. Jobinard, if you were only a poor man, what a thing it would be foi Art! Ah, if we only had you to ait to us in the nude. We are going to do Ajax defying the lightning next week. What an Ajax you would make, Jobinard !” “You really ought to sacrifice yourself in the interests of Art,” another would remark. ' “You’d ruin the professional model. You would indeed.” “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Jobinard would reply, his hairy, baboonlike face grinning with delight, ‘‘a too benevolent heaven has made me the man I am,” and then he struck an attitude. “What legs!” we all cried in a sort of chorus.

“Ah, M. Jobinard,” I said pleadingly, “if you would only permit us to photograph your lower extremities.” “Never, gentlemen, never!” replied the infatuated Jobinard; “I care nothing for Art. Besides, it would be almost indecent; I could never look into a print shop without coming face to face with the evidences of my too fatal beauty.” * From that day Jobinard ceased to wear his professional apron. It was about a week after this that Daburon, I and another man presented ourselves at Jobinard’s establishment. We raised our hats to Jobinard as one man, we smiled, and then we bowed. The hairy little grocer seemed considerably astonished at our performance. “M. Jobinard,” said Daburon, who was our spokesman, “you see before you a deputation of three, representing the Art students of Paris, some 500 in number. We have come to beg a favor. Wo know, alas! too well, that it would be absolutely impossible to induce a man of your position in society to sit to us; but, Vs. Jobinard, a man possessing the lower extremities of a Hercules, a Farnese Heroules. M. Jobinard—and I need hardly remind you that Heroules was a demijod—hqs his duties as well as his privileges. Those magnificent lower extremities of his not hU own—they belong to the public. “Sucn lower extremities as vours, monsieur, are not for an age, but for all time. They must be handed down in marble to posterity. The legs of Jobinard must become a household word in Art. To refuse our request, monsieur, would be a crime. You would retain the copyright of your own legs of course. They would be multiplied in plaster of paris and become a marketable commodity over the whole civilized world. Such muscles as these,” said Daburon, respectfully prodding and patting the unfortunate Jobinard, “must not be lost to the artistio world. What a biceps, what a deltoid, my friends!” he continued. “What a magnificent development of the sternoclidomastoideus!’’ “You will not refuse us!” we cried in chorus. “You will not dare to refuse us,” added Daburon. “Gentlemen, 1 yield! I see that Art cannot get on without me. When would you like to begin?” said pCor Jobinard. “To-morrow at noon.’’answered Daburon as he shook huuds with the little grocer reverentially, and then we took our leave.

Nejct day a long procession filed into the shop. “This way, gentlemen, this way, if you please,” said M. Jobinard, as he indicated the way to his back yard. We must have been at least thirty. Everybody brought something; there were four sacks of plaster, some paving stones, bits of broken iron, bricks, and enough material to have walled up Jobinard alive. A great mass of moist plaster was prepared, the limbs that had become necessary to the world of Art were denuded of their covering and placed in the moist mass, then large quantities of the liquid plaster was poured on them, then the scraps of old iron, the bars, the paving stones and the bricks were carefully inserted and built up into the still soft mass which'was at least a yard high and a fard thfok. “Don’t move, dear M. Jobinard,” cried Daburon, “ the plaster is about to set. We shall return in half an hour, by which time the molds will be complete.” M. Jobinard, seated in the center of his back yard, bolt upright, bowed to each of us ns we passed out. In about a quarter of an hour Jobinard began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. “The moldß seem getting terribly heavy,” he said to one of his assistants who kept him company. “They seem on fire, and I oan’t move.”

At that moment the procession, headed by Daburon, filed once more into the courtyard. “It’s getting painful, gentlemen," said Jobinard. “I feel as though 1 were being turned to stone.” “Try and bear it bravely. Nothing is attained in this world, dear monsieur, without a certain amount of physical suffering. It will beset as hard as marble in a few minutes. We will obtain the necessary appliances for your release at once, Jobinard. Remain perfectly quiet till our return, ’’ said Daburon, rather suavely. And then wo each of us kissed our finger tips solemnly to poor Jobinard, and we filed out once more. It was the last day of tbe term at the Art school, and we were all off for onr holidays. For two hours Jobinard waited for us in an agony of fear; then he sent for a stonemason, who dug him out. They had to get the plaster off with a hammer. We had, by the direction of the Demon Daburon, omitted to oil the shapely limbs of our victim. Poor Jobinard.—[Tit-Bits.