"Pardon my intrusion, Mrs. Gerome, and ascribe it to Elsie's anxiety
concerning your health. In compliance with her request, I have come to
ascertain whether you really require my attention."
Dr. Grey placed his hat and gloves on the piano, and established
himself comfortably in a large chair near the arch, where Mrs. Gerome,
palette in hand, sat before her easel.
"Elsie's nerves have run away with her sound common sense, and filled
her mind with vagaries. She imagines that I need medicine, whereas I
only require quiet and peace, which neither she nor you will permit me
to enjoy."
She did not even glance at the visitor, but mixed some colors rapidly,
and deepened the rose-tints in a cluster of apple-blossoms she was
scattering in the foreground of a picture.
"If it is not of vital importance that those pearly petals should be
finished immediately, I should be glad to have you turn your face
towards me for a few moments. There,--thank you. Mrs. Gerome, do I
look like a nervous, whimsical man, whose fancy mastered his
professional judgment, or blunted his acumen?"
"You certainly appear as phlegmatic, as utterly unimaginative, as any
lager-loving German, whom Teniers or Ostade ever painted '_Unter den
linden_.'"
"Then my words should possess some influence when they corroborate
Elsie's statement, that you are far from well. Do not be childishly
incredulous, and impatiently shake your head; from a woman of your age
and sense one expects more dignity and prudence."
"Sir, your rudeness has at least a flavor of stern honesty that makes
it almost palatable. Do you propose to take my case into your skilful
hands?"
"I merely propose to expostulate with you upon the unfortunate and
ruinous course of life you have decided to pursue. No eremite of the
Thebaid, or the Nitroon, is more completely immured than I find you;
and the seclusion from society is quite as deleterious as the want of
out-door air and sunshine. Your mind, debarred from communion with
your race and denied novel and refreshing themes, centres in its own
operations and creations, broods over threadbare topics until it has
grown morbid; and, instead of deriving healthful nourishment from the
world that surrounds it, exhausts and consumes itself, like fabled
Araline, spinning its substance into filmy nothings."
"Filmy nothings! Thank you. I flatter myself, when I am safely housed
under marble, the world will place a different estimate upon some
things I shall leave behind to challenge criticism."
"How much value will public plaudits possess for ears sealed by death?
Mrs. Gerome, you are too lonely; you must have companionship that will
divert your thoughts."
"Not I, indeed! All that I require, I have in abundance,--music,
books, and my art. Here I am independent, for remember that he was a
petted son of fame, who said, 'Books are the true Elysian fields,
where the spirits of the dead converse, and into these fields a
mortal may venture unappalled. What king's court can boast such
company,--what school of philosophy such wisdom?' Verily if you
had ever examined my library you would not imagine I lacked
companionship. Why sir, yonder,--
'The old, dead authors throng me round about,
And Elzevir's gray ghosts from leathern graves look out.'
Count Oxenstiern spoke truly, when he declared, 'Occupied with the
great minds of antiquity, we are no longer annoyed by contemporaneous
fools.'"
She rose and pointed to the handsome cases in the rear room, filled
with choice volumes; and, while she stood with one arm resting on the
easel, Dr. Grey looked searchingly at her.
To-day there was a _spirituelle_ beauty in the white face that he had
never seen before; and the large eloquent eyes were full of dreamy
sunset radiance, unlike their wonted steely glitter. A change, vague
and indefinable, but unmistakable, had certainly passed over that
countenance since its owner came to reside at "Solitude," and, instead
of marring, had heightened its loveliness. The features were thinner,
the cheeks had lost something of their pure oval moulding, and the
delicate nostrils were almost transparent in their waxen curves; but
the arch of the lip was softened and lowered, and the face was like
that of some marble goddess on which mid-summer moonshine sleeps.
Her white mull robe was edged at the skirt and up the front with a
rich border of blue morning-glories, and a blue cord and tassel girded
it at her waist, while the broad braids of hair at the back of her
head were looped and fastened with a ribbon of the same color. Her
sleeves were gathered up to keep them clear of the paint on the
palette, and the dimples were no longer visible in her arms. The ivory
flesh was shrinking closer to the small bones, and the diaphanous
hands were so thin that the sapphire asp glided almost off the slender
finger around which it was coiled.
"Mrs. Gerome, you have lost twenty pounds of flesh within the last two
months, and your extreme pallor alarms me."
"All things look pallid in these rooms, for the light is bluish,
reflected from carpet, furniture, and curtains."
"I have noticed that you invariably wear blue, to the exclusion of all
other colors."
"Yes. Throughout the Levant it is considered a mortuary color; and,
moreover, I like its symbolism. The _Mater dolorosa_ often wears blue
vestments; also the priests during Lent; and even the images of Christ
are veiled in blue, as holy week approaches. Azure, in its absolute
significance, represents truth, and is the symbol of the soul after
death; so, as I walk the earth,--a fleshy 'death in life,'--I clothe
myself symbolically. In pagan cosmogonies the Creator is always
colored blue. Jupiter Ammon, Vischnou, Cneph, Krischna,--all are
azure. And because it is a solemn, consecrated color, mystic and
mournful, I wear it."
"My dear madam, this is a morbid whimsicality that trenches closely
upon monomania, and would be more tolerable in a lackadaisical
school-girl, than in a mature, intelligent, and gifted woman. Some of
your fantasies would be positively respectable in a Bedlamite, and you
seem an anomalous compound of eccentricities peculiar to extreme youth
and to advanced age."
"I believe, sir, that you are entirely correct in your analysis. I
stand before you, young in years, but forsaken by that 'blue-eyed
Hope' who frolics hand in hand with youth; and yet utterly devoid of
that philosophy and wisdom which justly belong to the old age of my
heart."
Her tone was indescribably weary, and, as she laid aside her brush and
folded her hands together on the cross-beam of the easel, the
transient light died out of her countenance, and the worn, tired look,
came back and settled on every feature.
... "The soft, sad eyes,
Set like twilight planets in the rainy skies,--
With the brow all patience, and the lips all pain,"
wove a strange spell over the visitor, whose gaze was riveted on the
only woman who had ever aroused even temporary interest in his heart.
She was always beautiful, but to-day there was a helpless, hopeless
abandonment in her listless demeanor, that appealed successfully to
the manly tenderness and chivalry of his nature; and into his strong,
true, noble soul, came a longing to cheer, and guide, and redeem this
strange, desolate woman, whose personal loveliness would have made her
regnant over the gay circles of fashionable life, yet whose existence
was more lonely than that of an eaglet in some mountain eyrie.
Rising, he leaned against the easel and looked down into the colorless
face that possessed such a wondrous charm for him.
"Mrs. Gerome, for natures diseased like yours, the only remedy, the
only cure, is earnest, vigorous labor; and the regimen you really
require is mournfully at variance with your present habits and modes
of thought."
"I do labor incessantly; more indefatigably than any plowman, or
mason, or carpenter. Your prescription has been thoroughly tested, and
found worthless, as an antidote to my malady,--hopelessness."
"Unfortunately the labor has all been mental; heart and soul have
stood aloof, while the brain almost wore itself out. This canvas is
destroying you; your creations are too rapid, too exhausting."
"Dr. Grey, you grievously misapprehend the whole matter, for my work
reminds me of what Canova once said of West's pictures, 'He groups; he
does not compose.'"
Dr. Grey put his hand on her wrist, and counted the rapid, feeble,
irregular pulse.
She made an effort to throw off his fingers, but they clung
tenaciously to the polished arm.
"How many hours do you sleep, during the twenty-four?"
"Sometimes three, occasionally one, frequently none."
"How much longer do you suppose your constitution will endure such
merciless taxation?"
"I know very little about these things, and care still less, but as
Horne Tooke said, when a foreigner inquired how much treason an
Englishman might venture to write without being hanged, 'I cannot
inform you just yet, but I am trying.'"
"Has life become such an intolerable burden that you are impatient to
shake it off?"
"Even so, Dr. Grey. When Elsie dies the last link will have snapped,
and I trust I shall not long survive her. If I prayed at all, it would
be for speedy death."
"If you prayed at all, existence would not prove so wearisome; for
resignation would cure half your woes."
"Confine your prescriptions to the body,--that is tangible, and may be
handled and scrutinized; but venture no nostrums for a heart and soul
of which you know nothing. Once I was almost a Moslem in the frequency
and fervor of my prayers; but now, the only petition I could force
myself to offer would be that prayer of Epictetus, '_Lead me, Zeus and
Destiny, whithersoever I am appointed to go; I will follow without
wavering; even though I turn coward and shrink, I shall have to
follow, all the same._'"
Dr. Grey sighed heavily, and answered,--
"It is painful to hear from feminine lips a fatalism so grim as to
make all prayer a mockery; and it would seem that the loss of those
dear to you, would have insensibly and unavoidably drawn your heart
heavenward, in search of its transplanted idols."
He knew from the sudden spasm that seized her calm features, and
shuddered through her tall figure, that he had touched, perhaps too
rudely, some chord in her nature which--
"Made the coiled memory numb and cold,
That slept in her heart like a dreaming snake,
Drowsily lift itself, fold by fold,
And gnaw, and gnaw hungrily, half-awake."
"Ah, indeed, my heart was drawn after them,--but not heavenward! No, no,
no! My idols were not transplanted,--they were shattered!--shattered!"
She leaned forward, looking up into his face; and, raising her hand
impressively, she continued in a voice so mournful, so hopelessly
bitter, that Dr. Grey shivered as he listened.
"Oh, sir, you who stand gazing down in sorrowful reproach upon what
you regard as my unpardonable impiety, little dream of the fiery
ordeal that consumed my childlike, beautiful faith, as flames crisp
and blacken chaff. I am alone, and must ever be, while in the flesh;
and I hoard my pain, sparing the world my moans and tears, my wry
faces and desperate struggles. I tell you, Dr. Grey,--
'None know the choice I made; I make it still.
None know the choice I made, and broke my heart,
Breaking mine idol; I have braced my will
Once, chosen for once my part.
I broke it at a blow, I laid it cold,
Crushed in my deep heart where it used to live.
My heart dies inch by inch; the time grows old,
Grows old in which I grieve.'"
He did not comprehend her, but felt that her past must have been
melancholy indeed, of which the bare memory was so torturing.
"At least, Mrs. Gerome, let us thank God, that beyond the grave there
remains an eternal reunion with your idol, and--"
"God forbid! You talk at random, and your suggestion would drive me
mad, if I believed it. Let me be quiet."
She walked away, and seemed intently watching the sea, of whose
protean face she never wearied; and, puzzled and tantalized, Dr. Grey
turned to examine the unfinished picture.
It represented an almost colossal woman, kneeling under an apple-tree,
with her folded hands lifted towards a setting sun that glared from
purple hills, across waving fields of green and golden grain. The
azure mantle that enveloped the rounded form, floated on the wind and
seemed to melt in air, so dim were its graceful outlines; and on one
shoulder perched a dove with head under its wing, nestling to
sleep,--while a rabbit nibbled the grass at her feet, and a squirrel
curled himself comfortably on the border of her robe. In the
foreground were scattered sheaves of yellow wheat, full ears of corn,
bunches of blue, bloom-covered grapes, clusters of olives, and
various delicate flowers whose brilliant hues seemed drippings from
some wrung and broken rainbow.
The face was unlike flesh and blood,--was dim, elfish, wan, with
large, mild eyes, as blue and misty as the _nebulae_ that Herschel
found in Southern skies,--eyes that looked at nothing, but seemed to
penetrate the universe and shed soft solemn light over all things.
Back from the broad, low brow, floated a cloud of silky yellow hair,
that glittered in the slanting rays of sunshine as if powdered with
gold dust; and over its streaming strands fluttered two mottled
butterflies, and a honey-laden bee. On distant hill-slopes cattle
browsed, and at the right of the kneeling woman a young lamb nibbled a
cluster of snowy lilies, while a dappled fawn watched the gambols of a
dun kid; and on the left, in a tuft of bearded grass, a brown snake
arched its neck to peer at a brood of half-fledged partridges.
"Mrs. Gerome, will you be so kind as to explain this mythologic
design?"
She came back to the easel, and took up her palette.
"If it requires an explanation it is an egregious failure, and shall
find a vacant corner in some rubbish garret."
"It is exceedingly beautiful, but I do not fully comprehend the
symbolism."
"If it does not clearly mean the one thing for which it was intended,
it means nothing, and is worthless. Look, sir, she--
'Forgets, remembers, grieves, and is not sad;
The quiet lands and skies leave light upon her eyes;
None knows her weak, or wise, or tired, or glad.'"
Dr. Grey bit his lip, but shook his head.
"You must read me your painted riddle more explicitly. Is it Ceres?"
"No, sir; a few sheaves do not make a harvest. I am a stupid bungler,
spoiling canvas and wasting paint, or else you are as obtuse as the
critics who may one day hover hungrily over it. Try the aid of one
more clew, and if you fail to catch my purpose, I will dash my brush
all loaded with ochre, right into those mystic, prescient eyes, and
blur them forever. Listen, and guess,--
'This is my lady's praise;
God after many days
Wrought her in unknown ways,
In sunset lands;
This was my lady's birth,
God gave her might and mirth
And laid his whole sweet earth
Between her hands.'"
"Pray do not visit the sin of my stupidity upon that fascinating
picture. I am not familiar with the lines you quote, but know that you
have represented Nature, have embodied an ideal Isis, or Hertha, or
Cybele; though I can not positively name the phase of the Universal
Mother, which you have seized and perpetuated."
He caught her arm, and removed from her fingers the palette and
brushes.
"Dr. Grey, it is more than either or all of the three you mention; for
Persian mythology, like Persian wines and Persian roses, is richer,
more subtle, more fragrant, more glowing than any other. That woman is
'_Espendermad_.'"
"Thank you; now I comprehend the whole. God has endowed you with
wonderful talent. The fruit and flowers in that foreground must have
cost you much labor, for indeed you seem to have faithfully followed
the injunction of Titian, 'Study the effect of light and shade on a
bunch of grapes.' That luscious amber cluster lying near the poppies
is tantalizingly suggestive of Rhineland, and of the vines that
garland the hills of Crete and Cyprus."
A shade of annoyance and disappointment crossed the artist's face.
"Now, I quite realize what Cespedes felt, when, finding that visitors
were absorbed by the admirable finish of some jars and vases in the
foreground of the 'Last Supper,' upon which he had expended so much
time and thought, he called his servant and exclaimed in great
chagrin, 'Andres, rub me out these things, since, after all my care
and study, people choose to see nothing but these impertinences.'"
"If Zeuxis' grandest triumph consisted in painting grapes, you
assuredly should not take umbrage at my praise of that fruit on your
canvas, which hints of Tokay and Lachrima Christi. I am not an artist,
but I have studied the best pictures in Europe and America, and you
must acquit me of any desire to flatter when I tell you that
background yonder is one of the most extraordinary successes I have
ever seen, from either amateur or professional painters."
Mrs. Gerome arched her black brows slightly, and replied,--
"Then the success was accidental, and I stumbled upon it, for I bestow
little study on the backgrounds of my work. They are mere dim
distances of bluish haze, and do not interest me, and, since I paint
for amusement, I give most thought to my central figure."
"Have you forgotten the anecdote of Rubens, who, when offered a pupil
with the recommendation that he was sufficiently advanced in his
studies to assist him at once in his backgrounds, laughed, and
answered, 'If the youth was capable of painting backgrounds he did not
need his instruction; because the regulation and management of them
required the most comprehensive knowledge of the art.'"
"Yes, I am aware that is one of the _dogmata_ of the craft, but Rubens
was no more infallible than you or I, and his pictures give me less
pleasure than those of any other artist of equal celebrity. Dr. Grey,
if I am even a tolerable judge of my own work, the best thing I have
yet achieved is the drapery of that form. Perhaps I am inclined to
plume myself upon this point, from the fact that it was the opinion of
Carlo Maratti that 'The arrangement of drapery is more difficult than
drawing the human figure; because the right effect depends more upon
the taste of the artist than upon any given rules.' That sweep of blue
gauze has cost me more toil than everything else on the canvas."
"Pardon the expression of my curiosity concerning your modes of
composition in these singular and quaint creations, for which you
have no models; and tell me how this ideal presented itself to your
imagination."
"Dr. Grey, I am not a great genius like Goethe, and unfortunately can
not candidly echo his declaration, that, 'Nothing ever came to me in
my sleep.' I can scarcely tell you when this idea was first born in my
busy, tireless brain, but it took form one evening after I had read
Charlotte Bronte's 'Woman Titan,' in 'Shirley,' and compared it with
that glowing description of Jean Paul Richter, 'And so the Sun stands
at the border of the Earth, and looks back on his stately Spring,
whose robe-folds are valleys, whose breast-bouquet is gardens, whose
blush is a vernal evening, and who, when she rises, will be Summer.'
Still it was vague, and eluded me, until I found somewhere in my most
desultory reading, an account of '_Espendermad_,' one of the six
angels of Ormuzd, to whom was entrusted the guardianship of the earth.
That night I dreamed that I stood under a vine at Schiraz, gathering
golden-tinted grapes, when a voice arrested me, and, looking over my
shoulder, I saw that face peeping at me across a hedge of crimson
roses. Next day I sketched the features as they had appeared in my
dream, but I was not fully satisfied, and waited and pondered.
Finally, I read 'Madonna Mia,' and then all was as you see it now,
startlingly distinct and palpable."
"Why did you not select some dusky-haired, dusky-eyed, olive-tinted
oriental type, instead of a blonde who might safely venture into
Valhalla as a genuine Celtic Iduna?"
"With the exception of the yellow locks, I suspect the face of my
'_Espendermad_' might easily be matched among the maidens of the
Caucasus, who furnish the most perfect types of Circassian beauty. You
know there is a tradition that when Leonardo da Vinci chanced to meet
a man with an expression of character that he wished to make use of in
his work, he followed him until he was able to delineate the face on
canvas; but, on the contrary, the countenances I paint present
themselves to my imagination, and pursue me inexorably until I put
them into pigment. I do not possess ideals,--they seize and possess
me, teasing me for form and color, and forcing me to object them on
canvas. Such is the _modus operandi_ of whims that give me my
'_Espendermad_' praying to the Sun for benisons on the Earth, which
she is appointed to guard. Ah, if like the lambkins and birds, I, too,
could creep to the starry border of her azure robe, and lay my weary
head down and find repose. Some day, if my mind ever grows calm
enough, I want to paint a picture of Rest, that I can hang on my wall
and look upon when I am worn out in body and soul, when, indeed,--
'My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired,
My heart oppressed,
And I desire, what I long desired,
Rest,--only Rest.'"
"My dear madam, unless you speedily change your present mode of life,
you will not paint that contemplated picture, for a long rest will
soon overtake you."
A gleam that was nearer akin to joy than any expression he had yet
seen, passed from eye to lip, and she answered, almost eagerly,--
"If that be true, it offers a premium for the continuance of habits
you condemn so strenuously; but I dare not hope it, and I beg of you
not to tantalize me with vain expectations of a release that may yet
be far, far distant."
Dr. Grey's heart stirred with earnest sympathy for this lonely
hopeless soul, who, standing almost upon the threshold of life,
stretched her arms so yearningly to woo the advance of death.
The room was slowly filling with shadows, and, leaning there against
her easel, she looked as unearthly as the pearly forms that summer
clouds sometimes assume, when a harvest-moon springs up from sea foam
and fog, and stares at them. When she spoke again, her voice was chill
and crisp.
"My malady is beyond your reach, and baffles human skill. You mean
only kindness, and I suppose I ought to thank you, but alas! the
sentiment of gratitude is such a stranger in my heart, that it has yet
to learn an adequate language. Dr. Grey, the only help you can
possibly render me is to prolong Elsie's life. As for me, and my
uncertain future, give yourself no charitable solicitude. Do you
recollect what Lessing wrote to Claudius? 'I am too proud to own that
I am unhappy. I shut my teeth, and let the bark drift. Enough that I
do not turn it over with my own hands.' Elsie is signalling for me. Do
you hear that bell? Good-night, Dr. Grey."