Billy Traynor sat, deeply sunk in study, in the old recess of the palace
library. A passage in the “Antigone” had puzzled him, and the table was
littered with critics and commentators, while manuscript notes, scrawled
in the most rude hand, lay on every side. He did not perceive, in
his intense preoccupation, that Massy had entered and taken the place
directly in front of him. There the youth sat gazing steadfastly at
the patient and studious features before him. It was only when Traynor,
mastering the difficulty that had so long opposed him, broke out into an
enthusiastic declamation of the text that Massy, unable to control the
impulse, laughed aloud.
“How long are you there? I never noticed you comin' in,” said Billy,
half-shamed at his detected ardor.
“But a short time; I was wondering at--ay, Billy, and was envying,
too--the concentrated power in which you address yourself to your task.
It is the real secret of all success, and somehow it is a frame of mind
I cannot achieve.”
“How is the boy Bacchus goin' on?” asked Billy, eagerly.
“I broke him up yesterday, and it is like a weight off my heart that his
curly bullet head and sensual lips are not waiting for me as I enter the
studio.”
“And the Cleopatra?” asked Traynor, still more anxiously.
“Smashed,--destroyed. Shall I own to you, Billy, I see at last myself
what you have so often hinted to me,--I have no genius for the work?”
“I never said,--I never thought so,” cried the other; “I only insisted
that nothing was to be done without labor,--hard, unflinching labor;
that easy successes were poor triumphs, and bore no results.”
“There,--there, I'll hear that sermon no more. I'd not barter the
freedom of my own unfettered thoughts, as they come and go, in hours of
listless idleness, for all the success you ever promised me. There
are men toil elevates,--me it wearies to depression, and brings no
compensation in the shape of increased power. Mine is an unrewarding
clay,--that's the whole of it. Cultivation only develops the rank weeds
which are deep sown in the soil. I'd like to travel,--to visit some new
land, some scene where all association with the past shall be broken.
What say you?”
“I'm ready, and at your orders,” said Traynor, closing his book.
“East or west, then, which shall it be? If sometimes my heart yearns for
the glorious scenes of Palestine, full of memories that alone satisfy
the soul's longings, there are days when I pant for the solitude of
the vast savannas of the New World. I feel as if to know one's self
thoroughly, one's nature should be tested by the perils and exigencies
of a life hourly making some demand on courage and ingenuity. The
hunter's life does this. What say you,--shall we try it?”
“I 'm ready,” was the calm reply.
“We have means for such an enterprise, have we not? You told me, some
short time past, that nearly the whole of our last year's allowance was
untouched.”
“Yes, it's all there to the good,” said Billy; “a good round sum too.”
“Let us get rid of all needless equipment, then,” cried Massy, “and only
retain what beseems a prairie life. Sell everything, or give it away at
once.”
“Leave all that to me,--I'll manage everything; only say when you make
up your mind.”
“But it is made up. I have resolved on the step. Few can decide so
readily; for I leave neither home nor country behind.”
“Don't say that,” burst in Billy; “here's myself, the poorest crayture
that walks the earth, that never knew where he was born or who nursed
him, yet even to me there's the tie of a native land,--there's the soil
that reared warriors and poets and orators that I heard of when a
child, and gloried in as a man; and, better than that, there's the green
meadows and the leafy valleys where kind-hearted men and women live and
labor, spakin' our own tongue and feelin' our own feelin's, and that, if
we saw to-morrow, we 'd know were our own,--heart and hand our own.
The smell of the yellow furze, under a griddle of oaten bread, would be
sweeter to me than all the gales of Araby the Blest; for it would remind
me of the hearth I had my share of, and the roof that covered me when I
was alone in the world.”
The boy buried his face in his hands and made no answer. At last,
raising up his head, he said,--
“Let us try this life; let us see if action be not better than mere
thought. The efforts of intellect seem to inspire a thirst there is no
slaking. Sleep brings no rest after them. I long for the sense of some
strong peril which, over, gives the proud feeling of a goal reached,--a
feat accomplished.”
“I'll go wherever you like; I'll be whatever you want me,” said Billy,
affectionately.
“Let us lose no time, then. I would not that my present ardor should
cool ere we have begun our plan. What day is this? The seventh. Well, on
the eighteenth there is a ship sails from Genoa for Porto Rico. It was
the announcement set my heart a-thinking of the project. I dreamed of it
two entire nights. I fancied myself walking the deck on a starlit night,
and framing all my projects for the future. The first thing I saw next
morning was the same placard, 'The “Colombo” will sail for Porto Rico on
Friday, the eighteenth.'”
“An unlucky day,” muttered Billy, interrupting.
“I have fallen upon few that were otherwise,” said Massy, gloomily;
“besides,” he added, after a pause, “I have no faith in omens, or any
care for superstitions. Come, let us set about our preparations. Do
_you_ bethink you how to rid ourselves of all useless encumbrances here.
Be it _my_ care to jot down the list of all we shall need for the voyage
and the life to follow it. Let us see which displays most zeal for the
new enterprise.”
Billy Traynor addressed himself with a will to the duty allotted him. He
rummaged through drawers and desks, destroyed papers and letters, laid
aside all the articles which he judged suitable for preservation, and
then hastened off to the studio to arrange for the disposal of the
few “studies,” for they were scarcely more, which remained of Massy's
labors.
A nearly finished Faun, the head of a Niobe, the arm and hand of a Jove
launching a thunderbolt, the torso of a dead sailor after shipwreck, lay
amid fragments of shattered figures, grotesque images, some caricatures
of his own works, and crude models of anatomy. The walls were
scrawled with charcoal drawings of groups,--one day to be fashioned
in sculpture,--with verses from Dante, or lines from Tasso, inscribed
beneath; proud resolves to a life of labor figured beside stanzas in
praise of indolence and dreamy abandonment. There were passages of
Scripture, too, glorious bursts of the poetic rapture of the Psalms,
intermingled with quaint remarks on life from Jean Paul or Herder. All
that a discordant, incoherent nature consisted of was there in some
shape or other depicted; and as Billy ran his eye over this curious
journal,--for such it was,--he grieved over the spirit which had
dictated it.
The whole object of all his teaching had been to give a purpose to this
uncertain and wavering nature, and yet everything showed him now that
he had failed. The blight which had destroyed the boy's early fortunes
still worked its evil influences, poisoning every healthful effort, and
dashing with a sense of shame every successful step towards fame and
honor.
“Maybe he's right after all,” muttered Billy to himself. “The New World
is the only place for those who have not the roots of an ancient stock
to hold them in the Old. Men can be there whatever is in them, and they
can be judged without the prejudices of a class.”
Having summed up, as it were, his own doubts in this remark, he
proceeded with his task. While he was thus occupied, Massy entered, and
threw himself into a chair.
“There, you may give it up, Traynor. Fate is ever against us, do and
decide on what we will. Your confounded omen of a Friday was right this
time.”
“What do you mean? Have you altered your mind?”
“I expected you to say so,” said the other, bitterly. “I knew that I
should meet with this mockery of my resolution, but it is uncalled for.
It is not I that have changed!”
“What is it, then, has happened,--do they refuse your passport?”
“Not that either; I never got so far as to ask for it. The misfortune
is in this wise: on going to the bank to learn the sum that lay to
my credit and draw for it, I was met by the reply that I had nothing
there,--not a shilling. Before I could demand how this could be the
case, the whole truth suddenly flashed across my memory, and I recalled
to mind how one night, as I lay awake, the thought occurred to me that
it was base and dishonorable in me, now that I was come to manhood, to
accept of the means of life from one who felt shame in my connection
with him. 'Why,' thought I, 'is there to be the bond of dependence where
there is no tie of affection to soften its severity?' And so I arose
from my bed, and wrote to Sir Horace, saying that by the same post I
should remit to his banker at Naples whatever remained of my last year's
allowance, and declined in future to accept of any further assistance.
This I did the same day, and never told you of it,--partly, lest you
should try to oppose me in my resolve; partly,” and here his voice
faltered, “to spare myself the pain of revealing my motives. And now
that I have buoyed my heart up with this project, I find myself without
means to attempt it. Not that I regret my act, or would recall it,”
cried he, proudly, “but that the sudden disappointment is hard to bear.
I was feeding my hopes with such projects for the future when this
stunning news met me, and the thought that I am now chained here by
necessity has become a torture.”
“What answer did Sir Horace give to your letter?” asked Billy.
“I forget; I believe he never replied to it, or if he did, I have no
memory of what he said. Stay,--there was a letter of his taken from me
when I was arrested at Carrara. The seal was unbroken at the time.”
“I remember the letter was given to the Minister, who has it still in
his keeping.”
“What care I,” cried Massy, angrily, “in whose hands it may be?”
“The Minister is not here now,” said Billy, half speaking to himself,
“he is travelling with the Duke; but when he comes back--”
“When he comes back!” burst in Massy, impatiently; “with what calm
philosophy you look forward to a remote future. I tell you that this
scheme is now a part and parcel of my very existence. I can turn to no
other project, or journey no other road in life, till at least I shall
have tried it!”
“Well, it is going to work in a more humble fashion,” said Billy,
calmly. “Leave me to dispose of all these odds and ends here--”
“This trash!” cried the youth, fiercely. “Who would accept it as a
gift?”
“Don't disparage it; there are signs of genius even in these things;
but, above all, don't meddle with me, but just leave me free to follow
my own way. There now, go back and employ yourself preparing for the
road; trust the rest to me.”
Massy obeyed without speaking. It was not, indeed, that he ventured
to believe in Traynor's resources, but he was indisposed to further
discussion, and longed to be in solitude once more.
It was late at night when they met again. Charles Massy was seated at a
window of his room, looking out into the starry blue of a cloudless sky,
when Traynor sat down beside him. “Well,” said he, gently, “it's all
done and finished. I have sold off everything, and if you will only
repair the hand of the Faun, which I broke in removing, there's nothing
more wanting.”
“That much can be done by any one,” said Massy, haughtily. “I hope never
to set eyes on the trumpery things again.”
“But I have promised you would do it,” said Traynor, eagerly.
“And how--by what right could you pledge yourself for my labor? Nay,”
cried he, suddenly changing the tone in which he spoke, “knowing my
wilful nature, how could you answer for what I might or might not do?”
“I knew,” said Billy, slowly, “that you had a great project in your
head, and that to enable you to attempt it, you would scorn to throw all
the toil upon another.”
“I never said I was ashamed of labor,” said the youth, reddening with
shame.
“If you had, I would despair of you altogether,” rejoined the other.
“Well, what is it that I have to do?” said Massy, bluntly.
“It is to remodel the arm, for I don't think you can mend it; but you
'll see it yourself.”
“Where is the figure,--in the studio?”
“No; it is in a small pavilion of a villa just outside the gates. It was
while I was conveying it there it met this misfortune. There's the name
of the villa on that card. You 'll find the garden gate open, and
by taking the path through the olive wood you 'll be there in a few
minutes; for I must go over to-morrow to Carrara with the Niobe; the
Academy has bought it for a model.”
A slight start of surprise and a faint flush bespoke the proud
astonishment with which he heard of this triumph; but he never spoke a
word.
“If you had any pride in your works, you'd be delighted to see where the
Faun is to be placed. It is in a garden, handsomer even than this here,
with terraces rising one over the other, and looking out on the blue
sea, from the golden strand of Via Reggio down to the headlands above
Spezia. The great olive wood in the vast plain lies at your feet, and
the white cliffs of Serravezza behind you.”
“What care I for all this?” said Massy, gloomily. “Benvenuto could
afford to be in love with his own works,--_I_ cannot!”
Traynor saw at once the mood of mind he was in, and stole noiselessly
away to his room.