In accordance with my uncle's wish, which he had made known to Rayel, we
buried him the day following his death in the sunny courtyard where he
had spent the last days of his life. The funeral arrangements were made
as simple as possible, so as to exclude all except the functionaries
whose presence was absolutely necessary. A rector of the Church of
England read the service for the dead before the body was borne to its
grave by the undertaker. When this brief ceremony was over, and the
great gates were closed again upon our seclusion, Rayel said to me:
“I must talk more with you now, if you will let me. He said you would
help me after he was gone.”
It seemed idle to assure him, who already knew my heart, of the
happiness it would give me to fulfill the pledge of friendship made to
my uncle.
“Do you expect to see him again?” I asked.
After a moment of the most serious reflection, he said:
“Oh, yes, I shall see him again--when I die, then I shall see him. He
has gone to the Great Father, who gives life, and who takes it away.”
I found that Rayel, although entirely ignorant of the creeds and dogmas
prevailing among men, was profoundly religious, and that his simple
faith was built upon the deepest foundations. He evidently gave much
thought to the relationship between man and his Creator after he
felt the sting of bereavement, but it was a subject to which he never
referred in our conversation, unless, perchance, it drifted in upon us.
The weeks following my uncle's death, during which I was busy with
preparation for the new life that awaited us, Rayel spent in his
studio working over some unfinished pictures. At my urgent request, he
completed the head whose resemblance to Hester Chaffin had so startled
and amazed me the night I saw it first, and he regarded it with fonder
interest than he was wont to bestow upon the work of his brush. I
believe that face was the closest presentment of a human soul I shall
ever see until standing, as I hope to stand some time, in the presence
of the redeemed, where “that which is imperfect shall be put away.” I
have said that the picture bore a strong resemblance to Hester Chaffin,
but her face contained only a suggestion of that fine quality which was
so strongly presented in my cousin's ideal.
My uncle's fortune, as described in his will, amounted to nearly
$250,000. The greater part of it--everything, indeed, but the house
and grounds--was in cash, represented by certificates of deposit
accompanying the will, and bonds of the United States. There was a
considerable bequest for me, whom he had named as executor of the will,
which, however, I determined never to apply to my own use, except in
case of Rayel's death. A handsome annuity was provided for his only
surviving servant. The remainder was left to Rayel.
Having arranged for the maintenance of the old mute at an asylum not
far from the city, our preparations to leave were soon complete. I was
elated at the prospect of resuming my relations with the busy world
outside that lonely habitation. My first step was to visit a lawyer for
the purpose of ascertaining the legal formalities which I must observe
as executor of the will. Rayel wished to go with me, and I gladly
assented, for it seemed wise as an initiatory step in the new life that
was awaiting him. He waved his hand to the mute, who stood looking at us
through the big gates after we had passed out into the road, and then he
walked on beside me in silence. The sun-shot haze of a beautiful autumn
day hung over the face of nature, and his eyes wandered down the long
stretches of landscape, and into the depths of the distant sky, rapt
by the vision that was unfolding before him. The changing phases of the
town he regarded with curious interest, which often expressed itself in
childish exclamations of surprise as we made our way through the crowded
streets.
He was constantly calling my attention to things which, though familiar
and commonplace to me, were little less than wonderful to him.
“Look!” said he, suddenly taking hold of my arm. “There is a woman!”
He spoke in an eager, excited whisper, and shyly stepped behind me as
she passed us.
“They won't hurt you,” said I, subduing my desire to laugh at his
remark.
Such unfamiliar exposure to the public eye soon began to grate upon
his nerves. I did not wonder at it, for nearly every one we met took
a second look at his commanding figure, and some stared at him rudely.
Remembering my own emotions when I first stood in his presence, I was
not at all surprised that others were moved in a like manner. His were
a face and form that stood out like those of some heroic statue in the
throng of common mortals.
The proving and recording of the will was left entirely in the hands of
a reputable lawyer, who said that these formalities would not detain us
longer than a week.
We had determined to spend the winter in New York before going to
England. Since reaching America my time had been quite filled with work
until my entrance upon the utter isolation of my uncle's home. It was
my earnest desire to see something of the big metropolis on the western
Atlantic. Moreover, Mr. Earl had advised me in his letters to give Rayel
a chance to know more of life in his own country before bringing him to
England.
When at last the faithful old mute had gone to his new home, and we had
turned our backs upon the silent and deserted mansion, Rayel was moved
to bitter tears. The thought of its loneliness, now that its master was
dead and we were leaving it, perhaps forever, brought sad feelings to my
heart. How calmly the old pines whispered together as we walked down the
road that morning I shall not soon forget.
We reached the American metropolis early in October, three years after
my first arrival there from England. I rented comfortable apartments on
Fifth Avenue, near Madison Square. As soon as Rayel had recovered from
the fatigue and excitement of the trip, we set about unpacking his
pictures and getting them framed. Our lightest room was reserved for a
studio, and the paintings were hung under Rayel's direction.
We were scarcely settled in our new home when we received an unexpected
call from a newspaper reporter. He had learned from an art dealer that
we had some remarkable old paintings, and humbly begged the privilege of
looking at them. We made him welcome, of course, but I explained to him
that the collection was wholly the work of my cousin, who was not yet
old himself. In answer to his questions I assured him that the paintings
would not be exhibited in the National Academy, and that my cousin's
work had never appeared in any art exhibition whatever, at which he
seemed greatly surprised. Rayel was still shy of strangers, and, as
he was evidently a little annoyed at the presence of our visitor, I
shielded him from the need of taking any part in our conversation.
The next morning an article appeared in one of the leading dailies,
which subjected us to a glare of publicity not at all to our taste.
It went on to say that Signor Lanion, a young Spanish artist, had
just arrived in New York and had taken apartments at No. Fifth
Avenue. “Lanion” was the name which had appeared on our bill for
picture-framing, the clerk who had waited on us having taken it down
incorrectly. “Unfortunately,” the article continued, “Signor Lanion
does not speak English, and for that reason the reporter was unable to
interview him.”
The paper described Rayel's personal charms at much length, and claimed
the credit of having discovered a genius who, although still a youth,
had done work worthy of an acknowledged master.
We had deep respect for the influence of that newspaper before another
week ended. Art managers, tailors, advertising agents, auctioneers
and numerous men and women prompted by no motive but idle curiosity,
besieged us until we bolted our doors in dismay against all comers. The
mail, too, brought us missives of varying import from persons who
had read the article, one of which was a polite letter from Francis
Paddington, a Wall Street broker, whose name I had heard frequently
during my American travels.
“It was not stated,” said he, referring to the newspaper article,
“whether or not any of Signor Lanion's paintings are for sale. If
they are, I would be glad to look at them with a view to making some
purchases for my art collection.”
The letter suggested an idea worth considering. Rayel worked rapidly and
had already painted more pictures than we could hang to advantage in any
but the most liberal quarters. He was at a loss to understand just what
was meant by selling the pictures, but he was willing to sell them if
they were not to be destroyed--at least some of them. Accordingly I
wrote Mr. Paddington, appointing an hour when we would be glad to see
him or his representative at our rooms. The gentleman himself did us
the honor to call. After looking at the paintings, he expressed his
willingness to buy the entire collection. I told him, however, that we
would not part with more than ten canvases, and he seemed glad to
buy even that number at a price which was so far in excess of our
expectations that I was loath to accept it. Our beloved “Woman”--that
was the title we had given Rayel's strangely derived conception--was
among the paintings included in the sale to Mr. Paddington. Rayel
thought he could reproduce it, and for days after it was gone he made
ineffectual efforts to paint another woman after the ideal of our
hearts. But, alas! try as he would, that face never came back to his
canvas. Many beautiful faces were conjured by his masterful touch, but
they were other faces, and none of them satisfied us. The failure made
Rayel unhappy, and tears came to his eyes when the “Woman” was referred
to, as if he were mourning the loss of a dear friend.
Our patron had conceived a great liking for us, and we were soon invited
to visit his house “and meet a few of his friends at dinner.” It would
give us an opportunity to see the “Woman”--perhaps to buy her back
again--and we were strongly inclined to take advantage of it. Our
patron's residence was one of the largest and most elegant on Fifth
Avenue. It was a matter of common fame that his entertainments were the
cause of more envy and heartburning in the fashionable sisterhood than
any other events of the season. I had some doubt about the propriety of
taking Rayel to such a place, unaccustomed as he was to the refinements
and conventionalities of fashionable life. However, he had set his heart
upon going--he was so eager to see his beloved picture--and I did not
oppose his wish. In writing our acceptance of the invitation I
corrected Mr. Paddington's error regarding our name, and explained the
rechristening we had received in the public prints.