CHAPTER V. A STUDIO AND AN ARTIST
"Is my uncle in the library, Terence?" asked Mary of a very corpulentold man, in a red-brown wig.
"No, miss, he's in the--bother it, then, if I ever can think of the nameof it."
"The studio, you mean," said she, smiling.
"Just so, Miss Mary," replied he, with a sigh; for he remembered certainpenitential hours passed by himself in the same locality.
"Do you think you could manage to let him know I want him--that is, thatI have something important to say to him?"
"It's clean impossible, miss, to get near him when he's there. Sure, isn't he up on a throne, dressed out in goold and dimonds, and as cross asa badger besides, at the way they're tormenting him?"
"Oh, that tiresome picture, is it never to be completed?" muttered she,half unconsciously.
"The saints above know whether it is or no," rejoined Terence, "forone of the servants told me yesterday that they rubbed every bit of themaster out, and began him all again; for my Lady said he was n't halfhaggard enough, or worn-looking; but, by my conscience, if he goes on ashe 's doing, he ought to satisfy them."
"Why, I thought it was Henderson was sitting," said Mary, somewhatamused at the old man's commentaries.
"So he was; but they rubbed him out, too; for it seems now he ought tobe bald, and they 've sent him into Oughter-ard to get his head shaved."
"And what were _you_, Terry?"
"Arrah, who knows?" said he, querulously. "At first I was to besomebody's mother that was always cryin'; but they weren't pleased withthe way I done it; and then they made me a monk, and after that they puttwo hundredweight of armor on me, and made me lean my head on my arm asif I was overcome; and faith, so I was; for I dropped off asleep, andfell into a pot of varnish, and I 'm in disgrace now, glory be to God!and I only hope it may last."
"I wish I shared your fortune, Terry, with all my heart," said Mary,with some difficulty preserving her gravity.
"Couldn't it catch fire--by accident, I mean, miss--some eveningafter dark?" whispered Terry, confidentially. "Them 's materials thatwould burn easy! for, upon my conscience, if it goes on much longerthere won't be a sarvant will stay in the sarvice. They had little TomRegan holding a dish of charcoal so long that he tuk to his bed onFriday last, and was never up since; and Jinny Moore says she 'd ratherlave the place than wear that undacent dress; and whist, there's murdergoin' on now inside!" And with that the old fellow waddled off with aspeed that seemed quite disproportionate to his years.
While Mary was still hesitating as to what she should do, the doorsuddenly opened, and a man in a mediaeval costume rushed out, tuggingafter him a large bloodhound, whose glaring eyeballs and frothy mouthbetokened intense passion. Passing hurriedly forward, Mary beheld LadyDorothea bending over the fainting figure of a short little man, who layon the floor; while her uncle, tottering under a costume he could barelycarry, was trying to sprinkle water over him from an urn three feet inheight.
"Mr. Crow has fainted,--mere fright, nothing more!" said Lady Dorothea."In stepping backward from the canvas he unluckily trod upon Fang'spaw, and the savage creature at once sprung on him. That stupid wretch,Regan, one of your favorites, Miss Martin, never pulled him off till hehad torn poor Mr. Crow's coat, clean in two.".
"Egad, if I had n't smashed my sceptre over the dog's head the mischiefwouldn't have stopped there; but he 's coming to. Are you better, Crow?How do you feel, man?"
"I hope you are better, sir?" said Lady Dorothea, in an admirableblending of grand benevolence and condescension.
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"Infinitely better; supremely happy, besides, to have become the objectof your Ladyship's kind inquiries," said the little man, sitting up, andlooking around with a very ghastly effort at urbanity and ease.
"I never knew Fang to bite any one," said Mary.
"Does n't she, by jingo!" exclaimed the artist, who with difficultycaught himself in time before he placed his hand on the supposed seat ofhis injuries.
"She shall be muzzled in future," said Lady Dorothea, haughtily,repressing the familiar tone of the discussion.
"I think--indeed, I feel sure--I could get her in from memory, my Lady;she 's a very remarkable creature, and makes an impression on one." Ashe uttered these words ruefully, he lifted from the floor the fragmentof his coat-skirt, and gazed mournfully at it.
"I suppose we must suspend proceedings," said Lady Dorothea;"though really it is a pity to lose the opportunity of Miss Martin'spresence,--an honor she so very rarely accords us."
"I think after a few minutes or so, my Lady, I might feel equal," saidMr. Crow, rising and retreating to a wall with a degree of cautionthat showed he entertained grave fears as to the state of hishabiliments,--"I might feel equal, if not exactly to delineate MissMartin's Classic features, at least to throw in--"
"I could n't think of such a thing; I should be wretched at the ideaof engaging your attention at such a moment," said Mary, with acarelessness that contrasted strongly with her words; while she added,with earnestness, "Besides, I 'm not sure I could spare the time."
"You see, sir," said her Ladyship to the artist, "you have to deal witha young lady whose occupations are like those of a Premier. The Dukeof Wellington can vouchsafe a sitting for his portrait, but Miss Martincannot spare the time for it."
"Nay, Aunt Dorothy, if I were the Duke of Wellington I should do as hedoes. It is being Mary Martin, whose picture can have no interest forany one, enables me to follow the bent of my own wishes."
"Humility is another of her perfections," said Lady Dorothea, with alook that but too palpably expressed her feeling towards her niece.
As Mary was assisting her uncle to get rid of some of his superfluousdraperies, neither of them overheard this remark; while Mr. Crow was toodeeply impressed with his own calamities to pay any attention to it.
"Mr. Scanlan has been very anxious to see you, uncle," whispered Maryin his ear. "He has something of importance to communicate about theborough."
"Can't you manage it yourself, Molly? Can't you contrive somehow tospare me this annoyance?"
"But you really ought to hear what he has to say."
"I perceive that Miss Martin has a secret of moment to Impart toyou; pray let me not trouble the interview by my presence," said LadyDorothea. And she swept haughtily out of the room, throwing a mostdisdainful glance at her husband as she went.
"There, by George! you've secured me a pleasant afternoon, at allevents!" said Martin, angrily, to his niece, as throwing off thelast remnant of his regal costume, he rushed out, banging the doorpassionately behind him.
Mary sat down to compose her thoughts in quiet, for Mr. Crow hadpreviously made his escape unobserved; and truly there was need of somerepose for her agitated and wearied faculties. Her uncle's dependenceupon her for everything, and her aunt's jealousy of the influence shehad over him, placed her in a position of no common difficulty, and oneof which every day seemed to increase the embarrassment. For a momentshe thought she would have preferred a life of utter insignificance andobscurity; but as suddenly it occurred to her, "What had I been withoutthese duties and these cares? For me there are few, if any, of the tiesthat bind other girls to their homes. I have neither mother nor sister;I have none of the resources which education suggests to others. Mymind cannot soar above the realities that surround me, and seek for itsenjoyments in the realms of fancy; but, perhaps, I can do better," saidshe, proudly, "and make of these same every-day materials the poetryof an actual existence." As she spoke, she threw open the window, andwalked out upon the terrace over the sea. The fishermen's boats were allstanding out from shore,--a tiny fleet, whose hardy crews had done nodiscredit to the proudest three-decker. Though the heavy gale of themorning had gone down, it still blew fresh, and a long rolling swellthundered along in-shore, and sent a deep booming noise through many arocky cavern. High above this deafening clamor, however, rose the heartycheers of the fishermen as they detected Mary's figure where she stood;and many a
tattered rag of showy bunting was hoisted to do her honor.Never insensible to such demonstrations, Mary felt at the moment almostoverpowered with emotion. But a moment back and she bewailed herisolation and friendlessness; and see, here were hundreds who would haveresigned life in her behalf. Still, as the boats receded, the wind boreto her ears the welcome sounds; and as she heard them, her heart seemedto expand and swell with generous thoughts and good wishes, while alongher cheeks heavy tears were rolling.
"What need have I of other friends than such as these?" cried she,passionately. "_They_ understand me, and I them; and as for the greatworld, we are not made for each other!"
"My own sentiments to a 'T,' miss," said a soft, mincing voice behindher; and Mary turned and beheld Mr. Crow. He had arrayed himself in asmall velvet skull-cap and a blouse, and stood mixing the colors on hispalette in perfect composure. "I 'm afraid, Miss Martin, there 's an endof the great 'Historical.' Your uncle will scarcely be persuaded to puton the robes again, and it's a downright pity. I was getting a look ofweariness--imbecility I might call it--into his features that would havecrowned the work."
"I don't think I ever knew what your subject was!" said she, halfindolently.
"The Abdication of Charles V., Miss Martin," said he, proudly. "This isthe fourteenth time I have depicted it; and never, I am bound to say,with more favorable 'studies.' Your uncle is fine; my Lady gorgeous; Idon't say what I 'd like of another lovely and gifted individual; buteven down to that old rogue of a butler that would insist ontaking snuff through the bars of his helmet, they were all grand,miss,--positively grand!" Seeing that she appeared to bestow someattention to him, Mr. Crow went on: "You see, miss, in the beginningof a great effort of this kind there is no progress made at all. Thesitters keep staring at one another, each amused at some apparentabsurdity in costume or attitude; and then, if you ask them to call up alook of love, hate, jealousy, or the like, it's a grin you get,--a grinthat would shame a hyena. By degrees, however, they grow used to thesituation; they 'tone down,' as one might say, and learn to think lessof themselves, and be more natural. It was sheer fatigue, downrightexhaustion, and nothing else, was making your uncle so fine; and if hecould have been kept on low diet,--I did n't like to mention it, thoughI often wished it,--I 'd have got a look of cadaverous madness into hisface that would have astonished you."
By this time Mr. Crow had approached his canvas, and was workingaway vigorously, the action of his brush appearing to stimulate hisloquacity. Mary drew near to observe him, and insensibly felt attractedby that fascination which the progress of a picture invariablypossesses.
"This is the Queen," continued he; "she's crying,--as well she might;she doesn't rightly know whether the old fellow's out of his mind ornot; she has her misgivings, and she does n't half like that old thiefof a Jesuit that's whispering in the King's ear. This was to be you,Miss Martin; you were betrothed to one of the young princes; but somehowyou weren't quite right in your head, and you are looking on rather moreamused, you perceive, than in any way moved; you were holding up yourbeautiful petticoat, all covered with gold and precious stones, as muchas to say, 'Ain't I fine this morning?' when you heard the herald'strumpet announce the Prince of Orange; and there he is,--or there heought to be,--coming in at the door. There's a chap pulling the curtainaside; but I suppose, now," added he, with a sigh, "we 'll never see thePrince there!"
"But where could you have found a study for your Prince, Mr. Crow?"
"I have him here, miss," said Crow, laying down his brush to take asmall sketch-book from the pocket of his blouse. "I have him here;and there wouldn't have been a finer head in the canvas,--pale,stern-looking, but gentle withal; a fellow that would say, 'Lead themto the scaffold,' as easy as winking, and that would tremble and falterunder the eye of a woman he loved. There he is, now,--the hair, youknow, I put in myself, and the bit of beard, just for a little Titianeffect; but the eyes are his own, and the mouth not as good as his own."
"It's a striking head, indeed," said Mary, still contemplating itattentively.
"That's exactly what it is; none of your common brain-boxes, but a grandspecimen of the classic head, civilized down to a mediaeval period;the forty-first descendant of an Emperor or a Proconsul, living at thePincian Hall, or at his villa on the Tiber, sitting for his likeness toGiordano."
"There's a painful expression in the features, too," added she, slowly.
"So there is; and I believe he 's in bad health."
"Indeed!" said Mary, starting. "I quite forgot there was an original allthis time."
"He's alive; and what's more, he's not a mile from where we 'restanding." Mr. Crow looked cautiously about him as he spoke, ac iffearful of being overheard; and then approaching close to Miss Martin,and dropping his voice to a whisper, said, "I can venture to tell youwhat I dare n't tell my Lady; for I know well if she suspected who itwas would be the Prince of Orange, begad, I might abdicate too, aswell as the King. That young man there is-the son of a grocer inOughterard,--true, every word of it,--Dan Nelligan's son! and you mayfancy now what chance he 'd have of seeing himself on that canvas if herLadyship knew it."
"Is this the youth who has so distinguished himself at college?" askedMary.
"The very one. I made that sketch of him when he was reading for themedal; he did n't know it, for I was in a window opposite, where hecouldn't see me; and when I finished he leaned his chin in his handand looked up at the sky, as if thinking; and the expression of hisup-turned face, with the lips a little apart, was so fine that I tookit down at once, and there it is," said he, turning over the page andpresenting a few pencil lines lightly and spiritedly drawn.
"A young gentleman left this packet, Miss Mary, and said it was foryou," said a servant, presenting a small sealed enclosure. Mary Martinblushed deeply, and she opened the parcel, out of which fell her ownglove, with a card.
"The very man we were talking of," said Mr. Crow, lifting it up andhanding it to her,--"Joseph Nelligan. That's like the old proverb; talkof the--" But she was gone ere he could finish his quotation.
"There she goes," said Crow, sorrowfully; "and if she 'd have stayed tenminutes more I 'd have had her all complete!" and he contemplated withglowing satisfaction a hasty sketch he had just made in his book. "It'slike her,--far more than anything I have done yet; but after all--"And he shook his head mournfully as he felt the poor pretension of hisefforts. "Small blame to me to fail, anyhow," added he, after a pause."It would take Titian himself to paint her; and even he couldn't giveall the softness and delicacy of the expression,--that would takeRaffaelle; and Vandyke for her eyes, when they flash out at times; andGiordano for the hair. Oh, if he could have seen it just as I did aminute ago, when the wind blew it back, and the sunlight fell over it!"Arrah!" cried he, impatiently, as with a passionate gesture he tore theleaf from his book and crushed it in his hand,--"arrah! What righthave I even to attempt it?" And he sat down, covering his face with hishands, to muse and mourn in silence.
Simpson--or as he was more generally known, Simmy Crow--was neithera Michael Angelo nor a Raffaelle; but he was a simple-minded,honest-hearted creature, whose life had been a long hand-to-hand fightwith fortune. Originally a drawing-master in some country academy, thecaprice--for it was little else--of a whimsical old lady had sent himabroad to study; that is, sent him to contemplate the very highesttriumphs of genius with a mind totally unprepared and uncultivated, togaze on the grandest conceptions without the shadow of a clew tothem, and to try and pick up the secrets of art when he stood in utterignorance of its first principles. The consequence was, he went wild inthe enthusiasm of his admiration; he became a passionate worshipper atthe shrine, but never essayed to be priest at the altar. Disgusted anddispirited by his own miserable attempts, he scarcely ever toucheda pencil, but roved from city to city, and from gallery to gallery,entranced,--enchanted by a fascination that gradually insinuateditself into his very being, and made up the whole aim and object of histhoughts. This idolatry imparted an ecstasy to his existence that li
ftedhim above every accident of fortune. Poor, hungry, and ill-clad, hestill could enter a gallery or a church, sit down before a Guido or aRembrandt, and forget all, save the glorious creation before him. By thesudden death of his patroness, he was left, without a shilling, hundredsof miles from home. Humble as his requirements were, he could not supplythem; he offered to teach, but it was in a land where all have access tothe best models; he essayed to copy, but his efforts were unsalable.To return home to his country was now his great endeavor; and afterinnumerable calamities and reverses, he did arrive in England, whence hemade his way to Ireland, poorer than he had quitted it.
Had he returned in better plight, had he come back with some of theappearance of success, the chances are that he might have thriven onthe accidents of fame; but he was famishing and in beggary. Some allegedthat he was a worthless fellow who had passed a life of idleness anddebauch; others, that he was not without ability, but that his habits ofdissipation rendered him hopeless; and a few--a very few--pitied him asa weak-brained enthusiast, who had no bad about him, but was born tofailure!
In his utter destitution he obtained work as a house-painter,--anemployment which he followed for three or four yeare, and in whichcapacity he had been sent by his master to paint some ornamentalstucco-work at Cro' Martin. The ability he displayed attracted LadyDorothea's notice, and she engaged him to decorate a small garden villawith copies from her own designs. He was entirely successful, and somuch pleased was her Ladyship that she withdrew him from his ignobleservitude and attached him to her own household, where now he had beenliving two years, the latter half of which period had been passed inthe great work of which we have already made some mention. It so chancedthat poor Simmy had never sold but two copies in his life: one was TheAbdication of Charles V., the other, The Finding of Moses; and so, outof gratitude to these successes, he went on multiplying new versions ofthese subjects _ad infinitum_, eternally writing fresh variations on theold themes, till the King and the Lawgiver filled every avenue of hispoor brain, and he ceased to have a belief that any other story thanthese could be the subject of high art.
Happy as he now was, he never ceased to feel that his position exposedhim to many an ungenerous suspicion.
"They 'll say I 'm humbugging this old lady," was the constantself-reproach he kept repeating. "I know well what they 'll think of me;I think I hear the sneering remarks as I pass." And so powerfully hadthis impression caught hold of him, that he vowed, come what would ofit, he 'd set out on his travels again, and face the cold stern world,rather than live on what seemed to be the life of a flatterer and asycophant. He could not, however, endure the thought of leaving his"Abdication" unfinished, and he now only remained to complete this greatwork. "Then I 'm off," said he; "and then they 'll see if poor SimmyCrow was the fellow they took him for." Better thoughts on this themewere now passing through his mind, from which at last he aroused himselfto proceed with his picture. Once at work, his spirits rose; hopesflitted across his brain, and he was happy. His own creations seemed tosmile benignly on him, too, and he felt towards them like a friend, andeven talked with them, and confided his secret thoughts to them. In thispleasant mood we shall leave him, then; nor shall we linger to listen tothe avowals he is making of his upright intentions, nor his willingnessto bear the hardest rubs of fortune, so that none can reproach him for amean subserviency.