“Is my uncle in the library, Terence?” asked Mary of a very corpulent
old man, in a red-brown wig.
“No, miss, he's in the--bother it, then, if I ever can think of the name
of it.”
“The studio, you mean,” said she, smiling.
“Just so, Miss Mary,” replied he, with a sigh; for he remembered certain
penitential hours passed by himself in the same locality.
“Do you think you could manage to let him know I want him--that is, that
I have something important to say to him?”
“It's clean impossible, miss, to get near him when he's there. Sure, is
n't he up on a throne, dressed out in goold and dimonds, and as cross as
a 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, “for
one of the servants told me yesterday that they rubbed every bit of the
master out, and began him all again; for my Lady said he was n't half
haggard enough, or worn-looking; but, by my conscience, if he goes on as
he 's doing, he ought to satisfy them.”
“Why, I thought it was Henderson was sitting,” said Mary, somewhat
amused at the old man's commentaries.
“So he was; but they rubbed him out, too; for it seems now he ought to
be 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 be
somebody's mother that was always cryin'; but they weren't pleased with
the way I done it; and then they made me a monk, and after that they put
two hundredweight of armor on me, and made me lean my head on my arm as
if I was overcome; and faith, so I was; for I dropped off asleep, and
fell 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 evening
after dark?” whispered Terry, confidentially. “Them 's materials that
would burn easy! for, upon my conscience, if it goes on much longer
there won't be a sarvant will stay in the sarvice. They had little Tom
Regan holding a dish of charcoal so long that he tuk to his bed on
Friday last, and was never up since; and Jinny Moore says she 'd rather
lave the place than wear that undacent dress; and whist, there's murder
goin' on now inside!” And with that the old fellow waddled off with a
speed that seemed quite disproportionate to his years.
While Mary was still hesitating as to what she should do, the door
suddenly opened, and a man in a mediaeval costume rushed out, tugging
after him a large bloodhound, whose glaring eyeballs and frothy mouth
betokened intense passion. Passing hurriedly forward, Mary beheld Lady
Dorothea bending over the fainting figure of a short little man, who lay
on the floor; while her uncle, tottering under a costume he could barely
carry, was trying to sprinkle water over him from an urn three feet in
height.
“Mr. Crow has fainted,--mere fright, nothing more!” said Lady Dorothea.
“In stepping backward from the canvas he unluckily trod upon Fang's
paw, and the savage creature at once sprung on him. That stupid wretch,
Regan, one of your favorites, Miss Martin, never pulled him off till he
had torn poor Mr. Crow's coat, clean in two.”.
“Egad, if I had n't smashed my sceptre over the dog's head the mischief
wouldn'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 admirable
blending of grand benevolence and condescension.
[Illustration: 080]
“Infinitely better; supremely happy, besides, to have become the object
of your Ladyship's kind inquiries,” said the little man, sitting up, and
looking 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 difficulty
caught himself in time before he placed his hand on the supposed seat of
his 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.” As
he uttered these words ruefully, he lifted from the floor the fragment
of 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's
presence,--an honor she so very rarely accords us.”
“I think after a few minutes or so, my Lady, I might feel equal,” said
Mr. Crow, rising and retreating to a wall with a degree of caution
that showed he entertained grave fears as to the state of his
habiliments,--“I might feel equal, if not exactly to delineate Miss
Martin's Classic features, at least to throw in--”
“I could n't think of such a thing; I should be wretched at the idea
of engaging your attention at such a moment,” said Mary, with a
carelessness 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 with
a young lady whose occupations are like those of a Premier. The Duke
of Wellington can vouchsafe a sitting for his portrait, but Miss Martin
cannot spare the time for it.”
“Nay, Aunt Dorothy, if I were the Duke of Wellington I should do as he
does. It is being Mary Martin, whose picture can have no interest for
any one, enables me to follow the bent of my own wishes.”
“Humility is another of her perfections,” said Lady Dorothea, with a
look that but too palpably expressed her feeling towards her niece.
As Mary was assisting her uncle to get rid of some of his superfluous
draperies, neither of them overheard this remark; while Mr. Crow was too
deeply impressed with his own calamities to pay any attention to it.
“Mr. Scanlan has been very anxious to see you, uncle,” whispered Mary
in his ear. “He has something of importance to communicate about the
borough.”
“Can't you manage it yourself, Molly? Can't you contrive somehow to
spare 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 to
you; pray let me not trouble the interview by my presence,” said Lady
Dorothea. And she swept haughtily out of the room, throwing a most
disdainful glance at her husband as she went.
“There, by George! you've secured me a pleasant afternoon, at all
events!” said Martin, angrily, to his niece, as throwing off the
last remnant of his regal costume, he rushed out, banging the door
passionately behind him.
Mary sat down to compose her thoughts in quiet, for Mr. Crow had
previously made his escape unobserved; and truly there was need of some
repose for her agitated and wearied faculties. Her uncle's dependence
upon her for everything, and her aunt's jealousy of the influence she
had over him, placed her in a position of no common difficulty, and one
of which every day seemed to increase the embarrassment. For a moment
she thought she would have preferred a life of utter insignificance and
obscurity; but as suddenly it occurred to her, “What had I been without
these duties and these cares? For me there are few, if any, of the ties
that bind other girls to their homes. I have neither mother nor sister;
I have none of the resources which education suggests to others. My
mind cannot soar above the realities that surround me, and seek for its
enjoyments in the realms of fancy; but, perhaps, I can do better,” said
she, proudly, “and make of these same every-day materials the poetry
of an actual existence.” As she spoke, she threw open the window, and
walked out upon the terrace over the sea. The fishermen's boats were all
standing out from shore,--a tiny fleet, whose hardy crews had done no
discredit to the proudest three-decker. Though the heavy gale of the
morning had gone down, it still blew fresh, and a long rolling swell
thundered along in-shore, and sent a deep booming noise through many a
rocky cavern. High above this deafening clamor, however, rose the hearty
cheers 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 almost
overpowered with emotion. But a moment back and she bewailed her
isolation and friendlessness; and see, here were hundreds who would have
resigned life in her behalf. Still, as the boats receded, the wind bore
to her ears the welcome sounds; and as she heard them, her heart seemed
to expand and swell with generous thoughts and good wishes, while along
her 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 great
world, we are not made for each other!”
“My own sentiments to a 'T,' miss,” said a soft, mincing voice behind
her; and Mary turned and beheld Mr. Crow. He had arrayed himself in a
small velvet skull-cap and a blouse, and stood mixing the colors on his
palette in perfect composure. “I 'm afraid, Miss Martin, there 's an end
of the great 'Historical.' Your uncle will scarcely be persuaded to put
on the robes again, and it's a downright pity. I was getting a look of
weariness--imbecility I might call it--into his features that would have
crowned the work.”
“I don't think I ever knew what your subject was!” said she, half
indolently.
“The Abdication of Charles V., Miss Martin,” said he, proudly. “This is
the fourteenth time I have depicted it; and never, I am bound to say,
with more favorable 'studies.' Your uncle is fine; my Lady gorgeous; I
don't say what I 'd like of another lovely and gifted individual; but
even down to that old rogue of a butler that would insist on
taking snuff through the bars of his helmet, they were all grand,
miss,--positively grand!” Seeing that she appeared to bestow some
attention to him, Mr. Crow went on: “You see, miss, in the beginning
of a great effort of this kind there is no progress made at all. The
sitters keep staring at one another, each amused at some apparent
absurdity in costume or attitude; and then, if you ask them to call up a
look of love, hate, jealousy, or the like, it's a grin you get,--a grin
that would shame a hyena. By degrees, however, they grow used to the
situation; they 'tone down,' as one might say, and learn to think less
of themselves, and be more natural. It was sheer fatigue, downright
exhaustion, and nothing else, was making your uncle so fine; and if he
could have been kept on low diet,--I did n't like to mention it, though
I often wished it,--I 'd have got a look of cadaverous madness into his
face that would have astonished you.”
By this time Mr. Crow had approached his canvas, and was working
away vigorously, the action of his brush appearing to stimulate his
loquacity. Mary drew near to observe him, and insensibly felt attracted
by that fascination which the progress of a picture invariably
possesses.
“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 or
not; she has her misgivings, and she does n't half like that old thief
of 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 somehow
you weren't quite right in your head, and you are looking on rather more
amused, you perceive, than in any way moved; you were holding up your
beautiful petticoat, all covered with gold and precious stones, as much
as to say, 'Ain't I fine this morning?' when you heard the herald's
trumpet announce the Prince of Orange; and there he is,--or there he
ought to be,--coming in at the door. There's a chap pulling the curtain
aside; but I suppose, now,” added he, with a sigh, “we 'll never see the
Prince 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 a
small 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 them
to the scaffold,' as easy as winking, and that would tremble and falter
under the eye of a woman he loved. There he is, now,--the hair, you
know, I put in myself, and the bit of beard, just for a little Titian
effect; 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 it
attentively.
“That's exactly what it is; none of your common brain-boxes, but a grand
specimen of the classic head, civilized down to a mediaeval period;
the forty-first descendant of an Emperor or a Proconsul, living at the
Pincian Hall, or at his villa on the Tiber, sitting for his likeness to
Giordano.”
“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 all
this time.”
“He's alive; and what's more, he's not a mile from where we 're
standing.” Mr. Crow looked cautiously about him as he spoke, ac if
fearful of being overheard; and then approaching close to Miss Martin,
and dropping his voice to a whisper, said, “I can venture to tell you
what I dare n't tell my Lady; for I know well if she suspected who it
was would be the Prince of Orange, begad, I might abdicate too, as
well as the King. That young man there is-the son of a grocer in
Oughterard,--true, every word of it,--Dan Nelligan's son! and you may
fancy now what chance he 'd have of seeing himself on that canvas if her
Ladyship knew it.”
“Is this the youth who has so distinguished himself at college?” asked
Mary.
“The very one. I made that sketch of him when he was reading for the
medal; he did n't know it, for I was in a window opposite, where he
couldn't see me; and when I finished he leaned his chin in his hand
and looked up at the sky, as if thinking; and the expression of his
up-turned face, with the lips a little apart, was so fine that I took
it down at once, and there it is,” said he, turning over the page and
presenting a few pencil lines lightly and spiritedly drawn.
“A young gentleman left this packet, Miss Mary, and said it was for
you,” said a servant, presenting a small sealed enclosure. Mary Martin
blushed deeply, and she opened the parcel, out of which fell her own
glove, with a card.
“The very man we were talking of,” said Mr. Crow, lifting it up and
handing it to her,--“Joseph Nelligan. That's like the old proverb; talk
of the--” But she was gone ere he could finish his quotation.
“There she goes,” said Crow, sorrowfully; “and if she 'd have stayed ten
minutes more I 'd have had her all complete!” and he contemplated with
glowing satisfaction a hasty sketch he had just made in his book. “It's
like 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 his
efforts. “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 give
all the softness and delicacy of the expression,--that would take
Raffaelle; and Vandyke for her eyes, when they flash out at times; and
Giordano for the hair. Oh, if he could have seen it just as I did a
minute ago, when the wind blew it back, and the sunlight fell over it!
“Arrah!” cried he, impatiently, as with a passionate gesture he tore the
leaf from his book and crushed it in his hand,--“arrah! What right
have I even to attempt it?” And he sat down, covering his face with his
hands, to muse and mourn in silence.
Simpson--or as he was more generally known, Simmy Crow--was neither
a Michael Angelo nor a Raffaelle; but he was a simple-minded,
honest-hearted creature, whose life had been a long hand-to-hand fight
with fortune. Originally a drawing-master in some country academy, the
caprice--for it was little else--of a whimsical old lady had sent him
abroad to study; that is, sent him to contemplate the very highest
triumphs of genius with a mind totally unprepared and uncultivated, to
gaze on the grandest conceptions without the shadow of a clew to
them, and to try and pick up the secrets of art when he stood in utter
ignorance of its first principles. The consequence was, he went wild in
the enthusiasm of his admiration; he became a passionate worshipper at
the shrine, but never essayed to be priest at the altar. Disgusted and
dispirited by his own miserable attempts, he scarcely ever touched
a pencil, but roved from city to city, and from gallery to gallery,
entranced,--enchanted by a fascination that gradually insinuated
itself into his very being, and made up the whole aim and object of his
thoughts. This idolatry imparted an ecstasy to his existence that lifted
him above every accident of fortune. Poor, hungry, and ill-clad, he
still could enter a gallery or a church, sit down before a Guido or a
Rembrandt, and forget all, save the glorious creation before him. By the
sudden death of his patroness, he was left, without a shilling, hundreds
of miles from home. Humble as his requirements were, he could not supply
them; he offered to teach, but it was in a land where all have access to
the best models; he essayed to copy, but his efforts were unsalable.
To return home to his country was now his great endeavor; and after
innumerable calamities and reverses, he did arrive in England, whence he
made his way to Ireland, poorer than he had quitted it.
Had he returned in better plight, had he come back with some of the
appearance of success, the chances are that he might have thriven on
the accidents of fame; but he was famishing and in beggary. Some alleged
that he was a worthless fellow who had passed a life of idleness and
debauch; others, that he was not without ability, but that his habits of
dissipation rendered him hopeless; and a few--a very few--pitied him as
a weak-brained enthusiast, who had no bad about him, but was born to
failure!
In his utter destitution he obtained work as a house-painter,--an
employment which he followed for three or four yeare, and in which
capacity he had been sent by his master to paint some ornamental
stucco-work at Cro' Martin. The ability he displayed attracted Lady
Dorothea's notice, and she engaged him to decorate a small garden villa
with copies from her own designs. He was entirely successful, and so
much pleased was her Ladyship that she withdrew him from his ignoble
servitude and attached him to her own household, where now he had been
living two years, the latter half of which period had been passed in
the great work of which we have already made some mention. It so chanced
that poor Simmy had never sold but two copies in his life: one was The
Abdication of Charles V., the other, The Finding of Moses; and so, out
of gratitude to these successes, he went on multiplying new versions of
these subjects _ad infinitum_, eternally writing fresh variations on the
old themes, till the King and the Lawgiver filled every avenue of his
poor brain, and he ceased to have a belief that any other story than
these could be the subject of high art.
Happy as he now was, he never ceased to feel that his position exposed
him to many an ungenerous suspicion.
“They 'll say I 'm humbugging this old lady,” was the constant
self-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 had
this impression caught hold of him, that he vowed, come what would of
it, 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 a
sycophant. He could not, however, endure the thought of leaving his
“Abdication” unfinished, and he now only remained to complete this great
work. “Then I 'm off,” said he; “and then they 'll see if poor Simmy
Crow was the fellow they took him for.” Better thoughts on this theme
were now passing through his mind, from which at last he aroused himself
to proceed with his picture. Once at work, his spirits rose; hopes
flitted across his brain, and he was happy. His own creations seemed to
smile benignly on him, too, and he felt towards them like a friend, and
even talked with them, and confided his secret thoughts to them. In this
pleasant mood we shall leave him, then; nor shall we linger to listen to
the avowals he is making of his upright intentions, nor his willingness
to bear the hardest rubs of fortune, so that none can reproach him for a
mean subserviency.