Ver.04.29.93*END*
A Face Illumined
by E. P. Roe
Preface
As may be gathered from the following pages, my title was obtained
a a number of years ago, and the story has since been taking form
and color in my mind. What has become of the beautiful but discordant
face I saw at the concert garden I do not know, but I trust that
that the countenance it suggested, and its changes may not prove
so vague and unsatisfactory as to be indistinct to the reader. It
has looked upon the writer during the past year almost like the face
of a living maiden, and I have felt, in a way that would be hard
to explain, that I have had but little to do with its expressions,
and that forces and influences over which I had no control were
moulding character.
The old garden, and the aged man who grew young within it, are not
creations, but sacred memories.
That the book may tend to ennoble other faces than that of Ida
Mayhew, is the earnest wish of
E. P. Roe.
Cornwall-on-the-Hudson, N. Y.
Contents
Chapter I: A Face..............................................11
Chapter II: Ida Mayhew.........................................22
Chapter III: An Artist's Freak.................................35
Chapter IV: A Parthian Arrow...................................42
Chapter V: Spite...............................................51
Chapter VI: Reckless Words and Deeds...........................60
Chapter VII: Another Feminine Problem..........................71
Chapter VIII: Glimpses of Tragedy..............................85
Chapter IX: Unexpectedly Thrown Together.......................96
Chapter X: Phrases too Suggestive.............................108
Chapter XI: A "Tableau Vivant"................................118
Chapter XII: Miss Mayhew is Puzzled...........................126
Chapter XIII: Nature's Broken Promise.........................137
Chapter XIV: A Revelation.....................................145
Chapter XV: Contrasts.........................................159
Chapter XVI: Out Among Shadows................................172
Chapter XVII: New Forces Developing...........................184
Chapter XVIII: Love Put to Work...............................195
Chapter XIX: Man's Highest Honor..............................203
Chapter XX: A Wretched Secret that Must be Kept...............209
Chapter XXI: A Deliberate Wooer...............................216
Chapter XXII: A Vain Wish.....................................225
Chapter XXIII: Jennie Burton's Remedies.......................232
Chapter XXIV: A Hateful, Wretched Life........................239
Chapter XXV: Half-Truths......................................246
Chapter XXVI: Sunday Table-Talk...............................251
Chapter XXVII: A Family Group.................................262
Chapter XXVIII: Rather Volcanic...............................268
Chapter XXIX: Evil Lives Cast Dark Shadows....................278
Chapter XXX: The Deliberate Wooer Speaks First................284
Chapter XXXI: An Emblem.......................................293
Chapter XXXII: The Dangers of Despair.........................303
Chapter XXXIII: "Hope Dies Hard"..............................311
Chapter XXXIV: Puzzled........................................324
Chapter XXXV: Desperately Wounded.............................335
Chapter XXXVI: Temptation's Voice.............................350
Chapter XXXVII: Voices of Nature..............................360
Chapter XXXVIII: A Good Man Speaks............................369
Chapter XXXIX: Van Berg's Escape..............................387
Chapter XL: Van Berg's Conclusions............................397
Chapter XLI: The Protestant Confessional......................403
Chapter XLII: The Corner-Stone of Character...................424
Chapter XLIII: A "Heavenly Mystery"...........................435
Chapter XLIV: "The Garden of Eden"............................443
Chapter XLV: Problems Beyond Art..............................470
Chapter XLVI: A Resolute Philosopher..........................486
Chapter XLVII: The Concert Garden Again.......................500
Chapter XLVIII: Ida's Temptation..............................518
Chapter XLIX: The Blind God...................................538
Chapter L: Swept Away.........................................555
Chapter LI: From Deep Experience..............................569
Chapter LII: An Illumined Face................................589
Chapter LIII: A Night's Vigil.................................601
Chapter LIV: Life and Trust...................................615
Chapter 1. A Face.
Although the sun was approaching the horizon, its slanting
rays found a young artist still bending over his easel. That his
shoulders are broad is apparent at a glance; that upon them is placed
a shapely head, well thatched with crisp black hair, is also seen
at once; that the head is not an empty one is proved by the picture
on the easel, which is sufficiently advanced to show correct and
spirited drawing. A brain that can direct the hand how to do one
thing well, is like a general who has occupied a strategic point
which will give him the victory if he follows up his advantage.
A knock at the door is not answered at once by the intent and
preoccupied artist, but its sharp and impatient repetition secures
the rather reluctant invitation,
"Come in," and even as he spoke he bent forward to give another
stroke.
"Six o'clock, and working still!" cried the intruder. "You will
keep the paint market active, if you achieve nothing else as an
artist."
"Heigho! Ik, is that you?" said he of the palette, good-naturedly;
and rising slowly he gave a lingering look at his work, then turned
and greeted his friend with the quiet cordiality of long and familiar
acquaintance. "What a marplot you are with your idle ways!" he
added. "Sit down here and make yourself useful for once by doing
nothing nothing for ten minutes. I am in just the mood and have
just the light for a bit of work which perhaps I can never do as
well again," and the artist returned promptly to his picture.
In greeting his friend he had revealed that he was above middle
height, that he had full black eyes that were not only good for
seeing, but could also, if he chose, give great emphasis to his
words, and at times be even more expressive. A thick mustache
covered his lip, but the rest of his face was cleanly shaven, and
was strong and decided in its outlines rather than handsome.
"They say a woman's work is never done," remarked Ik Stanton, dropping
into the easiest chair in the studio, "and for this reason, were
there no other, your muse is evidently of the feminine persuasion.
I also admit that she is a lady of great antiquity. Indeed I would
place her nearer to the time when 'Adam delved and Eve span' than
to the classic age."
"My dear Ik," responded the artist, "I am often at a loss to know
whether I love or despise you most. If a little of the whirr of
our great grandam's spinning wheel would only get into your brain
the world might hear from you. You are a man of unbounded stomach
and unbounded heart, and so you have won all there is of me except
my head, and that disapproves of you."
"A fig for the world! what good will it do me or it to have it hear
from me? you ambitious fellows are already making such a din that
the poor old world is half ready for Bedlam; and would go stark mad
were it not for us quiet, easy-going people, who have time for a
good dinner and a snack between meals. You've got a genius that's
like a windmill in a trade wind, always in motion; you are worth
more money than I shall ever have, but you are the greatest drudge
in the studio building, and work as many hours as a house-painter."
"When your brain once gets in motion, Ik, fiction will be its natural
product. You must admit that I have not painted many pictures."
"That is one of the things I complain of; I, your bosom friend and
familiar, your, I might add, guardian angel--I, who have so often
saved your life by quenching the flame of your consuming genius
with a hearty dinner, have been able to obtain one picture only
from you, and as one might draw a tooth. Your pictures are like
old maid's children--they must be so perfect that they can't exist
at all. But come, the ten minutes are up. Here's the programme
for the evening--a drive in the Park and a little dinner at a cool
restaurant near Thomas's Garden, and then the concert. That prince
of musical caterers has made a fine selection for to-night, and,
with the cigar stand on one side of us and the orchestra on the
other, we are certain to kill a couple of hours that will die like
swans."
"You mention the cigar-stand first."
"Why not? Smoke is more real than empty sound."
"Are you not equally empty, Ik, save after dinner? How have the
preceding hours of this long day been killed?"
"Like boas. They have enfolded me with a weary weight."
"The snakes in your comparison are larger than your pun, and the
pun, rather than yourself, suggests a constrictor's squeeze."
"Come, you are only abusing me to gain time, and you may gain too
much. My horses have more mettle than their master, and may carry
off my trap and groom to parts unknown, while you are wasting
paint and words. You are like the animals at the Park, that are
good-natured only after they are fed. So shut up your old paint
shop, and come along; we will shorten our ride and lengthen our
dinner."
With mutual chaffing and laughter the young men at last went down
to where a liveried coachman and a pair of handsome bays were in
waiting. Taking the high front seat and gathering up the reins, Ik
Stanton, with his friend Harold Van Berg at his side, bowled away
towards the Park at a rapid pace.
Harold Van Berg was, in truth, something of a paradox. He was an
artist, and yet was rich; he had inherited large wealth, and yet
had formed habits of careful industry. The majority of his young
acquaintances, who had been launched from homes like his own, were
known only as sons of their fathers, and degenerate sons at that.
Van Berg was already winning a place among men on the ground of
what he was and could do himself.
It were hard to say which was the stronger motive, his ambition or
the love of his art; but it seemed certain that between the two,
such talent as he had been endowed with would be developed quite
thoroughly. And he did possess decided talent, if not genius. But
his artistic gift accorded with his character, and was controlled
by judgement, correct taste, and intellectuality rather than by
strong and erratic impulses. His aims were definite and decided
rather than vague and diffusive; but his standards were so high
that, thus far, he had scarcely attempted more than studies that
were like the musician's scales by which he seeks to acquire a
skill in touch that shall enable him to render justly the works of
the great composers.
His family had praised his work unstintedly, and honestly thought
it wonderful; he had also been deluged with that kind of flattery
which relaxes the rules of criticism in favor of the wealthy. Thus
it was not strange that the young fellow, at one time, believed
that he was born to greatness by a kindly decree of fate. But as
his horizon widened he was taught better. His mind, fortunately,
grew faster than his vanity, and as he compared his crude but
promising work with that of mature genius, he was not stricken
with that most helpless phase of blindness--the inability to see
the superiority of others to one's self. Every day, therefore,
of study and observation was now chastening Harold Van Berg and
preparing him to build his future success on the solid ground of
positive merit as compared with that of other and gifted artists.
Van Berg's taste and talent led him to select, as his specialty,
the human form and countenance, and he chiefly delighted in those
faces which were expressive of some striking or subtle characteristic
of the indwelling mind. He would never be content to paint surfaces
correctly, giving to features merely their exact proportions. Whether
the face were historical, ideal, or a portrait, the controlling
trait or traits of the spirit within must shine through, or else
he regarded the picture as scarcely half finished.
A more sincere idolator than Van Berg, in his worship of beauty,
never existed; but it was the beauty of a complete man or a complete
woman. Even in his early youth he had not been so sensuous as to
be captivated by that opaque fragment of a woman--an attractive
form devoid of a mind. Indeed with the exception of a few boyish
follies, his art had been his mistress thus far, and it was beginning
to absorb both heart and brain.
With what a quiet pulse--with what a complacent sense of security
we often meet those seemingly trivial events which may change the
whole character of our lives! The ride had been taken, the dinner
enjoyed, and the two friends were seated in the large cool hallway
off the concert garden, where they could smoke without offence. The
unrivalled leader, Thomas, had just lifted his baton--that magic
wand whose graceful yet mysterious motion evokes with equal ease,
seemingly, the thunder of a storm, the song of a bird, the horrid
din of an inferno, or a harmony so pure and lofty as to suggest
heavenly strains. One of Beethoven's exquisite symphonies was to
be rendered, and Van Berg threw away his half-burned cigar, settled
himself in his chair and glanced around with a congratulatory air,
as if to say, "Now we are to have one of those pleasures which
fills the cup of life to overflowing."
Oh, that casual glance! It was one of those things that we might
justly call "little." Could anything have been more trivial,
slight, and apparently inconsequential than this half involuntary
act? Indeed it was too aimless even to have been prompted by a
conscious effort of the will. But this book is one of the least
results of that momentary sweep of the eye. Another was, that Van
Berg did not enjoy the symphony at all, and was soon in a very bad
humor. That casual glance had revealed, not far away, a face that
with his passion for beauty, at once riveted his attention. His
slight start and faint exclamation, caused Ik Stanton to look around
also, and then, with a mischievous and observant twinkle in his
eyes, the bon vivant resumed his cigar, which no symphony could
exorcise from his mouth.
At a table just within the main audience room, there sat a young
lady and gentleman. Even Van berg, who made it his business to
discover and study beauty, was soon compelled to admit to himself
that he had never seen finer features than were possessed by this
fair young stranger. Her nose was straight, her upper lip was
short, and might have been modelled from Cupid's bow; her chin did
not form a perfect oval after the cold and severe Grecian type, but
was slightly firm and prominent, receding with decided yet exquisite
curves to the full white throat. Her cheeks had a transparent
fairness, in which the color came and went instead of lingering
in any conventional place and manner; her hair was too light to be
called brown and too dark to be golden, but was shaded like that on
which the sunlight falls in one of Bougereau's pictures of "Mother
and Child;" and it rippled away from a broad low brow in natural
waves, half hiding the small, shell-like ears.
Van Berg at first though her eyes to be her finest feature, but
he soon regarded them as the worst, and for the same reason, as he
speedily discovered, that the face, each feature of which seemed
perfect, became, after brief study, so unsatisfactory as to cause
positive annoyance. To a passing glance they were large, dark,
beautiful eyes, but they lost steadily under thoughtful scrutiny.
A flashing gem may seem real at first, but as its meretricious rays
are analyzed, they lose their charm because revealing a stone not
only worthless worse than worthless, since it mocks us with a false
resemblance, thus raising hopes only to disappoint them. The other
features remained beautiful and satisfactory to Van Berg's furtive
observation because further removed from the informing mind, and
therefore more justly capable of admiration upon their own merits;
but the eyes are too near akin to the animating spirit not to suffer
from the relationship, should the spirit be essentially defective.
That the beautiful face was but a transparent mask of a deformed,
dwarfed, contemptible little soul was speedily made evident. The
cream and a silly flirtation with her empty-headed attendant--a
pallid youth who parted his hair like a girl and had not other parts
worth naming--absorbed her wholly, and the exquisite symphony was
no more to her than an annoying din which made it difficult to hear
her companion's compliments that were as sweet, heavy, and stale
as Mailard's chocolates, left a year on the shelves. Their mutual
giggle and chatter at last became so obtrusive that an old and
music-loving German turned his broad face towards them, and hissed
out the word "Hist!" with such vindictive force as to suggest that
all the winds had suddenly broken lose from the cave of Aeolus.
Ik Stanton, who had been watching Van Berg's perturbed, lowering
face, and the weak comedy at the adjacent table, was obviously much
amused, although he took pains to appear blind to it all and kept
his back, as far as possible, towards the young lady.
The German's "hist" had been so fierce as to be almost like a rap
from a policeman's club, and there was an enforced and temporary
suspension of the inane chatter. The attendant youth tried
to assume the incensed and threatening look with which an ancient
gallant would have laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. But
some animals and men only become absurd when they try to appear
formidable. It was ludicrous to see him weakly frowning at the
sturdy Teuton who had already forgotten his existence as completely
as he might that of a buzzing mosquito he had exterminated with a
slap.
They young girl's face grew even less satisfactory as it became
more quiet. A muddy pool, rippled by a breeze, will sparkle quite
brilliantly while in motion; but when quiet it is seen the more
plainly to be only a shallow pool. At first the beautiful features
expressed only petty resentment at the public rebuke. As this
faintly lurid light faded out and left the countenance in its normal
state it became more heavy and earthy in its expression than Van
Berg would have deemed possible, and it ever remained a mystery to
him how features so delicate, beautiful, and essentially feminine
could combine to show so clearly that the indwelling nature
was largely alloyed with clay. there was not that dewy freshness
in the fair young face which one might expect to see in the early
morning of existence. The Lord from heaven breathed the breath of
life into the first fair woman; but this girl might seem to have
been the natural product of evolution, and her soul to be as truly
of the earth as her body.
It was evident that she had been made familiar too early and
thoroughly with conventional and fashionable society, and, although
this fraction of the world is seldom without its gloves, its touch
nevertheless had soiled her nature. Her face did not express any
active or malignant principle of evil; but a close observer, like
Van Berg, in whom the man was in the ascendant over the animal, could
detect the absence of the serene, maidenly purity of expression,
characteristic of those girls who have obtained their ideas of life
from good mothers, rather than from French novels, French plays,
and a phase of society that borrows its inspiration from fashionable
Paris.
With the ending of the symphony the chatting and flirting at the
table began again, to Van Berg's increased disgust. Indeed, he
was so irritated that he could no longer control himself, and rose
abruptly, saying to his companion:
"Come, let us walk outside."
His sudden movement drew the young lady's attention, but by this
time he had only his broad shoulders turned towards her. She saw
Ik Stanton looking at her, however, with a face full of mischief,
and she recognized him with a nod and a smile.
He, with the familiarity that indicated relationship, but with a
motion too slight to be noticed by others, threw her a kiss from
the tips of his fingers, as one might toss a sugar-plum to a child,
and then followed his friend.