From Chambers's Journal. "STILL that light from his window, mother, and twelve o'clock has struck!" "We can do nothing, Helen. You would not stop at this hour? It is too late to go in." "But we might ring the up-stairs bell gently. Mary would come down and speak to us. Do, dear mother. I shall not be able to sleep if I go home without hearing something of him." Her mother consented, but rather reluctantly, and Mary went slowly up-stairs, and opened the studio door very gently. As she looked in, she saw that her brother was sitting in front of his casel, with his hands buried in his hair. The light of the lamp fell on masterly studies from Italian art casts, draperies, anatomical drawings, fine sketches, finished pictures, and all the usual contents of a hard-working artist's studio, but, brightest of all, on the picture on the easel. She stood behind him now, silently The two speakers crossed the street, and staring at that picture, with the bewildered rang the bell of the house from which the feeling that a wild, perplexed dream gives. bright light of a lamp shone out of the high- In the morning, she had seen the canvas shaped window of an artist's studio. They filled with figures full of grace, spirit, and had scarcely a minute to wait, before a young expression; nothing seemed wanting but the lady opened the door, and held out both last finish; now, one corner of the picture hands to receive the affectionate pressure of was entirely gone, and in its place was a theirs. She smiled, as if pleased to see gray neutral tint of paint. She stood there them; but her face was pale and anxious. till a sense of giddiness and faintness made Why is James at work so late again?" her cling to the back of her brother's chair. asked the younger visitor. "He will ruin He started up, and she staggered against his health utterly, and his picture is so nearly the wall; but without noticing it, he put out finished, and so beautiful, that it cannot be his lamp, and hurried down-stairs. glimmering light of the candle she had brought up only seemed to add to the 66 necessary. وو The "I cannot understand it, Helen. He has been painting the whole day, scarcely allow-wretched impression of every thing about ing himself time to eat his dinner." "Oh, do go up to him! Tell him I entreat him to leave off to-night-for my sake." "I am really afraid to interrupt him; he is excited and irritable. He was quite vexed with me an hour ago, when I took him some coffee." Her eyes filled with tears. "You are overtired yourself, and your hand shakes," said Helen's mother. "You have been copying those manuscripts all this time, I fear. You all work too hard-much too hard. Here has my Helen been giving music-lessons for six hours to-day, and then up till this time in Exeter Hall." "We must work, dear mother; you know we must; but I am quite able-quite well and strong. Try once more, Mary. Go in gently, and give my message, if you can, and tell him that I got two new pupils today, and that the Messiah was grand tonight; but I missed your faces so in the old corner! Why did you not come?" "Oh, he would not hear of it." "Tell him I had none of that delicious feeling that he laughs at me for having, as if, when the sound swells out, I did it all myself. Do go and try to make him laugh." Mary shook her head, as if she knew that was impossible, but said she would go up to "If you succeed in taming his ferocity, hold up this white camelia in the window, and then give it to him. You will walk up and down on the opposite pavement for five minutes, mother? her, and she followed as fast as she was able. She had forgotten Helen and her anxieties, and the flower had dropped unnoticed from her hand. When she reached her sittingroom, she found her brother there, in something of the same attitude he had been in before. It was a very small room, poorly furnished, but yet had an air of refinement about it. A small table in a corner was covered with sheets of manuscript and the ink in the pen was still wet. "James, my dear brother!" Mary began. He held out one hand, and shook it, as if to forbid her to speak. She began to collect and put away her writing, and some tears dropped on the paper as she did so. There was a long silence. "Can you get me a glass of water, Mary?" She was glad of the words, few as they were. "The coffee is hot. Have coffee, dear James." 66 No, no-water!" he repeated impatiently, and drank it off to the last drop when she gave it. Again there was a silence. "Don't speak to me, but listen," he said "It's not anxiety I feel, James; it is"- you. I know what I am about." His head was raised now, and she saw a pale face, with swollen veins on the high white forehead, and eyes red from over-use. "I saw how it ought to be about an hour ago, after it was almost finished. It came to me suddenly, like a revelation; there was nothing for it but to take it all out. Stop! I can't bear any thing-and least of all, pity! I cannot work on it again till the paint dries, so I shall go off somewhere to the country for three or four days. Keep the stove a-light, and let in air when the wind is dry, and go out and walk, and don't copy above two hours a day, and get Helen to come to you, and go and see Helen-that's all you can do for me. And now, good-night. Go to bed directly. You look so ill, you make me wretched." "Wont you hear a message from Helen?" "Helen! No, not to-night." She took up her candle, and moved sadly towards the door of her bedroom; it opened out of the other. "I'm going to smoke a cigar, and walk up and down for five minutes; the air will do me good. I shall be off very early in the morning." "Let me go with you.” "Not this time; I must be alone: goodnight. I have the key of the door." And so they parted; but before a quarter of an hour, James was at her door, telling her not to be melancholy, for he had six weeks before him yet for his picture, and asking for Helen's message. Having heard it, he left his love for her, told Mary to sleep sound, and not get up early, and went up to his room: Though a little comforted, poor Mary lay awake for hours, revolving sad thoughts of ruined hopes that had been built on that picture, which, notwithstanding James' words, she believed would never be finished now, and it was late before she awoke. Her first thought was of him, and she hurried on her dressing-gown, and ran up to his room; but his door was open, and he was gone. He seemed not to have entered his studio again, for when she went in to keep her promises about the stove, the camelia lay behind his chair as it had dropped from her hand. She took it up, and put it in water, averting her head from the easel, that she might not see the picture, and determining to call on Helen early in the day, and sighing to think what she would suffer when she heard the state in which it was now. There had been a long engagement between James and Helen, dating back to the time when Helen was the daughter of a rich merchant, and James was the favorite nephew of a rich uncle, and destined for the bar. When he, following his unconquerable love of art, relinquished his profession, offended his uncle, and lost his inheritance, it was Helen alone who stood by him, had faith in his genius, and reliance on his steadiness of purpose. Then came three years' separation while he studied in Italy; and he came home to find her father bankrupt, and her beautiful voice and musical talents the support of the family; but constant to her love for him, and dearer to his heart than ever. "You shall marry her when you have sold your first picture in the royal academy," her father had said; and all the more, because her father was unfortunate, had Helen obeyed him implicitly, and waited-waited long and faithfully. The first year of his return, James could not finish any thing that satisfied himself; he would not exhibit at all. But now she had confident hopes that the time was at hand. That picture must succeed; there could be no doubt about it; so she employed every leisure hour in training her younger sister to take her place in the family. Lucy already taught her pupils occasionally, and Lucy's voice was finer than her own; so she looked forward with hope to her marriageday. Half in joke, half in earnest, it was already fixed between her and James. They had decided it was to be on the 10th of May, just long enough after the opening of the exhibition to allow them to prepare. Well might Mary's voice tremble, then, as she told Helen the events of the night before. But Helen's faith in James was unconquerable. "Trust to him," she said; "he knows what he is about. Did he not say so? He will come back and go to work again, and you will see that he is right." And he did come back on the third evening, full of life and heart, with a face brightened up by the keen winds of a frosty February, in which he had walked twenty miles a day; got up at dawn next morning, and worked early and late for weeks. No one saw his work, and no one talked about it; but the two loving hearts that felt with him saw that all was going on well, and had no anxiety. Many a pleasant hour they passed in the little sitting-room, when the labors of the day were over, and many a time it resounded with jokes and laughter, for James and Helen were both full of life, and Mary had a ready sympathy always for joy or sorrow. At last they all stood together before the finished picture. It was a noble work, infinitely finer than it could have been without the alteration and hard work of the last six weeks. Tears stood in Mary's eyes, and the light of joy and pride flashed from Helen's as they congratulated the artist and themselves. Something had to be done, however. An good judge, still he believed that it was well worth twice as much as he was asked to pay, and it was quite as easy to him to pay one sum as the other. It was simply because he loved making bargains, and was used to it; because he was what is called a patron of rising talent. But why, then, having_so mean a soul, did he covet that picture? Because he valued all pictures, not for their intrinsic beauty, or any pleasure he derived from them. But for their money-value. It was his ambition to be able to say that he sold a work of art for three times the price he gave for it. artist never thinks his work complete; there is always some last touch to be given, and they were ordered down again. On the stairs, they were startled by a loud double knock, and saw a handsome carriage at the door as it opened. Mr. Thompson was asked for, and a gentleman, whom they knew in a moment as the original of the portrait of Sir Jasper Langley, was shown up to the studio. He had come to see the picture, which he remembered as a sketch when his portrait was done. He looked at it long without speaking, through his glass, through his curved-up hand, with his head to one side, with his face close up to it, then far off. He Quite free from any speculations of this hid every bit of it by turns with his fingers, kind, James bounded up-stairs three steps and shaded first one corner, then the other, at a time; told his news; said that needlewith his handkerchief. The artist stood by work and manuscripts must vanish into darkfuming inwardly, his stock of patience fail-ness; notes of excuse must be written to ing fast. "How much do you ask for this picture, Mr. Thompson? was the first question. No word of praise or admiration had pre I will do so, Sir Jasper." pupils; notes of explanation to Lucy and mamma, and instant preparations made to spend the rest of the day somewhere among green fields and woods. It was lovely weather towards the end of March. No time was lost, and they were off in high spirits in half an hour. It was a bright and joyous day. They came home by moonlight, loaded with primroses, sweetbrier, harebells, and ivy wreaths, having wandered over wild commons and through green lanes; dined at a country inn, and decided that the wedding-trip should be into that same country. Then they had supper in the little sitting-room, brightened and scented with their flowers and wreaths; sang glees, laughed, and talked till one in the morning; and at last only separated because Mary had begun a sage lecture on the fact that that old lady in the velvet dress was to take her first sitting at ten o'clock. The old lady's portrait, and other work of that kind-which must be done for the money's sake-occupied the time that James longed to give to new pictures that crowded upon his imagination in the first flush of his enthusiasm. That check, if it had come out of the pocket, would have produced a rich interest-interest of more value to the world, if only the world knew it, than cent per cent; but it takes no note of its losses in that way. The baronet put his hand in his pocket, and was going to ask for pen and ink to write a check, but paused on looking round at the bare walls, the carpetless floor, the utter want of all furniture except the gems of art that shed a glory on it. He saw that he had to do with a needy man. He might get the picture cheaper by waiting till the academy opened. There was the chance of rejection. He looked again. No, that was impossible. But there was the chance of a bad place a bad light-the neglect of the public towards an unknown name; and it He sent his picture to the royal academy was very unlikely that any one else would for exhibition. Then came the anxiety as to find it out, at all events, at the private view, whether it would be received; but this ended or the first day. He rescinded his desire in about ten days. His picture was hung. that it should be marked " Sold," but promised to complete the purchase on the first Monday in May, and took leave. James then saw him down-stairs, and returned his bow from the window of his handsome carriage as it drove away. Why did Sir Jasper try to beat down the price of that picture? He was not a very THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 518 How and where? That was the next thought. And so, amidst drudgery and anxiety, came on the day of the private view, to which artists do not go, and then the day that the exhibition opened to the public. James had kept entirely aloof from all his brother-artists; he would not make any acquaintances among them till he had tried his strength, or he would have heard something of his fate; as it was, he was as ignorant of it as any casual visitor to the exhibition on the first Monday in May. Before twelve o'clock, Mary and Helen stood at the closed door of the royal academy among the crowd assembled there, something like the crowd at the pit-doors of a theatre. The hour struck on St. Martin's Church, the door opened, the crowd pressed in, the shilling ready in each hand was paid, the ticket received, and they hurried up-stairs. The rooms looked empty, though outside it had seemed that there were people enough to half fill them; they could see the walls of every one. The picture they looked for was not in the first, nor in the middle room. They were both growing giddy by the time they reached the great room, and Mary's heart sank, and began to tell her that what they sought must be looked for in the octagon room-then the condemned cell of exhibitors-or among the architectural drawings. No such dreary ideas ever entered Helen's more hopeful mind. She saw every thing even more quickly and clearly than usual, her senses being rendered more intense by her excitement. Suddenly she pressed Mary's hand, and hurried her across to the opposite wall. There it was, in the great room, below the line, but in a good light. It was beyond, far beyond Mary's hope, but not up to Helen's; still, she also flushed up with gladness, for even she could not but see that such a place was a high honor to a young unknown artist. The first thought, as they steadied themselves before it, and were able to think at all, was, how small it looks! the next, how beautiful it looks! They stood there long, and when they turned round, they found that the room was filling very fast, and that it had already become difficult to get near any of the favorite pictures, even if they had cared to do it; so they made their way back to the top of the stairs to watch for James. A continuous stream of people passed up, of whom many were young artists. All the members of the academy knew all about it long ago; had been at the dinner, or the private view; but the young men and the great majority of the lady exhibitors came now for the first time. There was James at last. He came up slowly, pushed his hair nervously off his forehead, as if his head ached, and showed that very pale countenance that overfatigue and anxiety always gave him. Eagerly they met him, and he had to remind them once or twice to speak low, as they told their news and hurried him in. By this time, the crowd was so great that all the low-hung pictures were hidden, except to eyes which were close to them, so that the effect of his was not so good as it had been. But James was quite satisfied with his place. Not with his picture. What true artist ever was satisfied with his work? One look was enough; and then he helped his two companions through the crowd to the upper end among the masterpieces, enjoying and pointing out the good, and passing unnoticed those for which he had no sympathy. His spirits rose as he looked. His own work was imperfect; no one knew its imperfection as well as he did; but it bore within it the promise that, some day, and that at no very distant date, he should be placed among these. "One more look at yours before we go," said Mary. They pressed through the crowd, James turning aside to other pictures, while she took her last look at his. A group of fashionable ladies, with one or two gentlemen, had stopped before it, while Mary stooped down examining it closely. "Oh, yes! this is J. Thompson's," said one. "The lady is actually standing near the sea. "So she is," said another, and they all laughed. "And there are the excited figures on the right!" said one of the gentlemen in a mocking tone, and again they all laughed. What could they mean by their impertinent laughter? Mary did not hear it; but it was a pity they did not see the indignant flash of Helen's eyes that followed them as they passed on. She forgot them and their trifling, however, in a moment when James again came to her side. They walked away homewards together. "Are you ready, both of you, to set off for the sea to-morrow?" "But Sir Jasper ?" said Mary. "Don't wait for him!" cried Helen. "James is quite ill. Look at his forehead ; he must have rest and change. Sir Jasper's letter can be sent after us." "You remember your promise, Helen ; one week after this date we are married." She pressed the arm on which her hand rested. They had forgotten all the world as their eyes met. 66 Thompson! is it possible? Where have you been these hundred years ? " It was an old schoolfellow and college-companion who held out both hands and stopped them with these words, as they walked along the Strand. "Harris! my dear fellow, how glad I am to see you again! I should have passed you if you had not stopped me." They shook hands warmly. "Miss Thompson!-I must not say Mary' now, I fear-have you forgotten me?" There was a faint blush on Mary's cheek, which she tried to laugh off, as she held out her hand. It told of memories that suddenly flashed upon her of the old, old story-a youthful passion in former days between her and her brother's friend. "Seven years since we parted, I do believe," said Harris. "I suppose you have passed at the bar long ago, Thompson? "You must come and see me, and then I will tell you all about it. And what have you been about all this time?" "I? Oh, sometimes in London, sometimes in Paris, making money slowly, and spending it quickly." "Ah! I have seen your name in literature, and enjoyed some of your speculations." "I generally write anonymously though. No, don't give me your card, and rush off again. Come and dine with me. My rooms are close by; and I've a pleasant set of fellows coming, mostly of the same profession as myself." "Not to-day. I am engaged." "Very pleasantly, I see. Lovely girl. Wont you introduce me?" This was said aside. The introduction was made; and by promises that the party should break up quite early, and declarations that as he himself must be off to Paris next morning, they could not meet again for months, Harris persuaded Helen and Mary to take his side of the question. Harris' rooms were handsome; his dinner, wine, and guests all good and pleasant. Jokes and puns flew round. The exhibition that had just opened came under discussion after dinner. Then began various remarks, and considerable abuse of certain pictures, that provoked James. He exchanged a good deal of excellent criticism with one of the company who sat at the bottom of the table, and who seemed the only one able to appreciate art at all. As to the others, they were perfectly reckless of any thing, except finding food for wit and fun; so, after flatly contradicting some, and laughing at others, he had made up his mind not to say another word on the subject, for fear he should lose his temper, when Harris took a copy of the Midas out of his pocket, and began to read the article on the private view of the Royal Academy, for the amusement of the company. Of course it began with eulogiums on the works of long-honored academicians and associates; but when younger men and unknown names were brought under review, James' ire rose again. "A most ignorant piece of criticism!" he exclaimed. "Wrong on every point. It praises exactly what is bad, and pulls to pieces every thing that is good." "Oh, yes, some of my best hits are to come. No. 777. By the Sea, by J. Thompson.' Hope he's no relation of yours, Thompson.' 99 "If he is, I shall not recognize him in your description, I fancy." "Well, here he is in style. We really have given as much time, in fact much more time, to this very exalted effort than it deserves, or than our already overtaxed patience rendered easy, but confess that we were unable to arrive at the very deep meaning which this young aspirant evidently thinks is expressed by the hollow eyes and excited gestures which he has here portrayed. As for the young lady in the centre, we think that the healthful breezes from the sea, near which she stands, might have been expected to give her a less cadaverous hue; and what, in the name of common sense, are the figures on her right aiming at ? For Heaven's sake, let us away with these pretentious flights, at least till the fledglings have got their penfeathers. The ideal !-it is a word of which we are sick. We are really tempted sometimes to utter profanities against the great names of antiquity, and quote Sir Joshua, when similarly provoked : "When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.' "A tea-cup, carefully painted, is worth all this rubbish twenty times over. Still, there is some talent in this young man. If he can consent to begin at the very beginning, to deprive us for some years of the pleasure of contemplating his handiworks, to say to himself daily, in the words of the great master already quoted, "Draw! draw! draw!" to study chiaroscuro, in which, as in neat handling, he is eminently deficient; to go, in short, to study art at its fountain-head in the Eternal City, then we may be able to welcome him among us some day; as it is, we heartily advise him to think again whether he has not mistaken his vocation, for haste and carelessness give but poor earnest of future excellence."" Not a muscle of James' face moved. |