The Passage through the Red Sea.
A PAUSE followed the recital: Percival's deep blue eyes seemed to be
full of the light of another world.
After awhile I observed, "Poetry soothes your wakeful hours; but you
have not at night the resource of painting."
"It is at night that I form my designs," he replied, "and draw in
imagination scenes that look meagre enough when transferred to canvas.
My execution falls sadly short of what I see in my waking dreams."
"I suppose that you choose subjects from Scripture," said I.
"Not exactly," answered my friend; "I take subjects rather from what
Scripture suggests, than follow in the beaten track of innumerable
artists by actually illustrating Scripture."
"I do not quite understand you," said I.
"Well, take for example the subject of the Children of Israel crossing
the Red Sea. You must have seen pictures of that. What impression have
they left on your mind?"
"That of a vast multitude of men, women and children, with large flocks
and herds, passing through something like a deep valley, with a pillar
of light above to guide them on their way."
"Amongst multitudes we are apt to forget the units," Percival observed.
"Have you never thought how many episodes of deep interest must have
occurred during that hasty flight—incidents which would draw out the
characters of individuals? Has your fancy never imagined some single
family group separate from the mass of fugitives flying from their
oppressors?"
"My fancy is not so lively as yours," I replied.
"You have never pictured to yourself what the Israelites may have seen
of the wonders of the deep, hitherto as a locked casket, in—
"'Those profound abysses where
Was never voice from upper air'?"
"What could the people have seen but sand; and perchance, sea-weed?"
said I.
"Would it trouble you, Seyton, to lift yon picture from the nail, and
bring it here? MY pictures are guiltless of frames, so they are more
easily moved. You will see on the canvas my idea of an episode which
may have occurred during the passage through the Red Sea."
I did as desired, and brought the picture to the side of my friend.
Poor Percival! His paintings are framed now; and the one which I am
about to describe hangs opposite to the table at which I am writing. He
bequeathed to me the sketches which were the children of his brain, his
hand, his heart.
To avoid needless repetition of the objectionable "I" in my brief
descriptions of Percival's picture gallery, I shall make my
recollections take the form of dialogue: except where what my friend
called "A Legend" comes in, which I will copy from the MS * left by the
author.
* Manuscript
It is impossible, however, to give on paper the charm of Percival's
voice; the lighting up of his countenance; his soul-absorption in his
subjects. My description looks to me like the colourless photograph of
a window of fine stained glass; the beauty lost; the bare outline of
the pattern depicted.
But it may be that friendship for the departed "casts a halo" over
works on which he so lovingly wrought. Percival did not himself set a
high value on his pictures; though their subjects had a fascination for
his mind. He often lamented his want of finish, and said that he could
not delineate as an artist what he might dream as a poet.
The Passage through the Red Sea.
Seyton. Why, Percival, this strange, weird production of yours must
have been the outcome of a nightmare!
Percival. The idea of it came to my mind during a night somewhat more
painful and restless than usual.
Seyton. Let me see what I can make out of it. Here, in the centre, the
first object to catch the eye is the skeleton of some huge leviathan;
some monster unknown to modern science, who might have taken his
pastime in the deep waters, or lashed the surface of the sea into foam
in the days of Noah. Half of the picture is in light, and half in
shadow, for in upper air hangs the pillar of cloud and fire; thus one
half of the skeleton reflects the ruddy glare, which gilds the bare
ribs, and partly reveals the vast proportions of the sea monster; while
darkness on the other hand conceals the length of the leviathan, as
he lies on his bed of sea-weed, green and brown, with the glimmering
glassy wall of water as a background behind him.
Percival. Is the skeleton the only object seen in the sketch?
Seyton. No, no; let me examine more closely. Here, to the left, I
dimly trace the heads and fore-parts of two horses; the animals, with
distended nostrils and ears turned back, evidently starting in fear at
suddenly coming on such an object of grisly horror lying right in their
path.
The horses appear to belong to some Egyptian of rank: they wear the
cumbrous trappings with which the antiquities at the Museum make us
familiar. Had there been space on your canvas, we should doubtless have
traced on it the outline of some gorgeous chariot, perhaps that of
Pharaoh himself.
Percival. I have tried, by the tightly-drawn reins, to show that the
driver of the chariot has suddenly perceived the ghastly obstacle in
his path. By that skeleton, I intended to convey to the mind an image
of death—that sudden death which was so close to Pharaoh and his
godless hosts, even while they were pressing forward in eager pursuit
of spoil and revenge.
Seyton. Now let us turn to the right hand of the picture which your
pencil has bathed in mysterious light. I see an Israelite mother. Her
mantle, falling back, shows a face of Oriental beauty, full of anxiety
and fear.
Percival. Yes, she has heard the tramp and the snorting of the
war-horses of Pharaoh; and she knows that she is the last of all the
fugitives, the one nearest to the enemy. She has been left behind the
rest: for in the confusion she had been separated from her child; and
she has wildly sought him, and found him at last almost close to the
fierce pursuers.
Seyton. And evidently utterly unconscious of danger. That bare-footed,
beautiful little boy, whose face beams with delight, presents an
expressive contrast to the anxious mother, who, grasping one of his
small hands, is trying to draw him hastily away.
Percival. The child is exulting; for he has found a prize in the
leviathan's fleshless jaws. His hand holds a beautiful coral.
Seyton. Percival! is this a picture or a parable?
Percival. Perhaps both. Do you grasp the meaning of the latter?
Seyton. You have given the clue by telling me that the huge skeleton
represents death. On the one side, we see it an object of natural
horror to those who, unprepared and unforgiven, find it suddenly close
at hand, dimly beheld in darkness: while to the children of light, it
is no object of terror; and even little ones can pluck the treasure of
joy from that which the worldling dreads and shrinks from.
[Illustration]