think, Mr. Noel, that no one could do well in painting who had not seen
and studied the old pictures over here, I made up my mind to come over
at any cost, if it was a possible thing to bring it about. It wasn't
easy, but--here we are. In the lives of all--almost all--artists, I have
noticed--haven't you?--that there comes a time when they have to live on
hope and their own pluck more than upon anything tangible that the
present has to offer. They have to take that risk. Well, I have taken
it; I took it when we left America. And now I will tell you what it is I
want from _you_. I haven't any hesitation in asking, because I am sure
you will feel interested in a case like mine, and because it was your
writings really that brought me here, you know. And so, then, first: I
would like your opinion of all that I have done so far. I have brought
everything with me to show you. Second: I want your advice as to the
best teacher; I suppose there is a great choice in Rome. Third: I should
be glad if you would give a general oversight to all I do for the next
year. And last, if you would be so kind, I should much enjoy making
visits with you to all the galleries and hearing your opinions again by
word of mouth, because that is always so much more vivid, you know, than
the printed page."
"My dear Miss Macks! you altogether over-estimate my powers," said Noel,
astounded by these far-reaching demands, so calmly and confidently made.
"Yes, I know. Of course it strikes you so--strikes you as a great
compliment that I should wish to put myself so entirely in your hands,"
answered Miss Macks, smiling. "But you must give up thinking of me as
the usual young lady; you must not think of me in that way any more than
I shall think of you as the usual young gentleman. You will never meet
me at a reception again; now that I have found _you_, I shall devote
myself entirely to my work."
"An alarming girl!" said Noel to himself. But, even as he said it, he
knew that, in the ordinary acceptation of the term at least, Miss Macks
was not alarming.
She was twenty-two; in some respects she looked older, in others much
younger, than most girls of that age. She was tall, slender, erect, but
not especially graceful. Her hands were small and finely shaped, but
thin. Her features were well cut; her face oval. Her gray eyes had a
clear directness in their glance, which, combined with the other
expressions of her face, told the experienced observer at once that she
knew little of what is called "the world." For, although calm, it was a
deeply confident glance; it showed that the girl was sure that she could
take care of herself, and even several others also, through any
contingencies that might arise. She had little color; but her smooth
complexion was not pale--it was slightly brown. Her mouth was small, her
teeth small and very white. Her light-brown hair was drawn back smoothly
from her forehead, and drawn up smoothly behind, its thickness braided
in a close knot on the top of her head. This compact coiffure, at a time
when most feminine foreheads in Rome and elsewhere were shaded almost to
the eyebrows by curling locks, and when the arched outline of the head
was left unbroken, the hair being coiled in a low knot behind, made Miss
Macks look somewhat peculiar. But she was not observant of fashion's
changes. That had been the mode in Tuscolee; she had grown accustomed to
it; and, as her mind was full of other things, she had not considered
this one. One or two persons, who noticed her on the voyage over, said
to themselves, "If that girl had more color, and if she was graceful,
and if she was a little more womanly--that is, if she would not look at
everything in such a direct, calm, impartial, impersonal sort of
way--she would be almost pretty."
But Miss Macks continued without color and without grace, and went on
looking at things as impersonally and impartially as ever.
"I shall be most happy, of course, to do anything that I can," Noel had
answered. Then to make a diversion, "Shall I not have the pleasure of
seeing Mrs. Macks?" he asked.
"Mrs. Macks? Oh, you mean mother. My mother's name is Spurr--Mrs. Spurr.
My father died when I was a baby, and some years afterwards she married
Mr. Spurr. She is now again a widow. Her health is not good, and she
sees almost no one, thank you."
"I suppose you are much pleased with the picturesqueness of Roman life,
and--ah--your apartment?" he went on.
"Pleased?" said Miss Macks, looking at him in wonder. "With our
apartment? We get along with it because we must; there seems to be no
other way to live in Rome. The idea of having only a story of a house,
and not a whole house to ourselves, is dreadful to mother; she cannot
get used to it. And with so many families below us--we have a
clock-mender, a dress-maker, an engraver, a print-seller, and a
cobbler--and only one pair of stairs, it does seem to me dreadfully
public."
"You must look upon the stairway as a street," said Noel. "You have
established yourselves in a very short time."
"Oh yes. I got an agent, and looked at thirty places the very first day.
I speak Italian a little, so I can manage the house-keeping; I began to
study it as soon as we thought of coming, and I studied hard. But all
this is of secondary importance; the real thing is to get to work. Will
you look at my paintings now?" she said, rising as if to go for them.
"Thanks; I fear I have hardly time to-day," said Noel. He was thinking
whether it would be better to decline clearly and in so many words the
office she had thrust upon him, or trust to time to effect the same
without an open refusal. He decided upon the latter course; it seemed
the easier, and also the kinder to her.
"Well, another day, then," said Miss Macks, cheerfully, taking her seat
again. "But about a teacher?"
"I hardly know--"
"Oh, Mr. Noel! you _must_ know."
And, in truth, he did know. It came into his mind to give her the name
of a good teacher, and then put all further responsibilities upon him.
Miss Macks wrote down the name in a clear, ornamental handwriting.
"I am glad it isn't a foreigner," she said. "I don't believe I should
get on with a foreigner."
"But it is a foreigner."
"Why, it's an English name, isn't it?--Jackson."
"Yes, he is an Englishman. But isn't an Englishman a foreigner in Rome?"
"Oh, you take that view? Now, to me, America and--well, yes, perhaps
England, too, are the nations. Everything else is foreign."
"The English would be very much obliged to you," said Noel, laughing.
"Yes, I know I am more liberal than most Americans; I really like the
English," said Miss Macks, calmly. "But we keep getting off the track.
Let me see--Oh yes. As I shall go to see this Mr. Jackson this
afternoon, and as it is not likely that he will be ready to begin
to-morrow, will you come then and look at my pictures? Or would you
rather commence with a visit to one of the galleries?"
Raymond Noel was beginning to be amused. If she had shown the faintest
indication of knowing how much she was asking, if she had betrayed the
smallest sign of a desire to secure his attention as Raymond Noel
personally, and not simply the art authority upon whom she had pinned
her faith, his disrelish for various other things about her would have
been heightened into utter dislike, and it is probable that he would
never have entered the street of the Hyacinth again. But she was so
unaware of any intrusion, or any exorbitance in her demands, probably so
ignorant of--certainly so indifferent to--the degree of perfection
(perfection of the most quiet kind, however) visible in the general
appearance and manner of the gentleman before her, that (he said to
himself) he might as well have been one of her own Tuscolee farmers, for
all she knew to the contrary. The whole affair was unusual; and Noel
rather liked the unusual, if it was not loud--and Miss Macks was, at
least, not loud; she was dressed plainly in black, and she had the gift
of a sweet voice, which, although very clear, was low-toned. Noel was an
observer of voices, and he had noticed hers the first time he heard her
speak. While these thoughts were passing through his mind, he was
answering that he feared his engagements for the next day would,
unfortunately, keep him from putting himself at her service.
Her face fell; she looked much disappointed.
"Is it going to be like this all the time?" she asked, anxiously. "Are
you always engaged?"
"In Rome, in the winter, one generally has small leisure. It will be the
same with you, Miss Macks, when you have been here a while longer; you
will see. As to the galleries, Mr. Jackson has a class, I think, and
probably the pupils will visit them all under his charge; you will find
that very satisfactory."
"But I don't want Mr. Jackson for the galleries; I want _you_," said
Miss Macks. "I have studied your art criticisms until I know them by
heart, and I have a thousand questions to ask about every picture you
have mentioned. Why, Mr. Noel, I came to Europe to see you!"
Raymond Noel was rather at a loss what to answer to this statement, made
by a girl who looked at him so soberly and earnestly with clear gray
eyes. It would be of no avail again to assure her that his opinions
would be of small use to her; as she had said herself, she was very
determined, and she had made up her mind that they would be of great use
instead of small. Her idea must wear itself out by degrees. He would try
to make the degrees easy. He decided that he would have a little private
talk with Jackson, who was a very honest fellow; and, for the present,
he would simply take leave.
"You are very kind," he said, rising. "I appreciate it, I assure you. It
has made me stay an unconscionable time. I hope you will find Rome all
you expected, and I am sure you will; all people of imagination like
Rome. As to the galleries, yes, certainly; a--ah--little later. You must
not forget the various small precautions necessary here as regards the
fever, you know."
"Rome will not be at all what I expected if _you_ desert me," answered
Miss Macks, paying no attention to his other phrases. She had risen,
also, and was now confronting him at a distance of less than two feet;
as she was tall, her eyes were not much below the level of his own.
"How can a man desert when he has never enlisted?" thought Noel,
humorously. But he kept his thought to himself, and merely replied, as
he took his hat: "Probably you will desert me; you will find out how
useless I am. You must not be too hard upon us, Miss Macks; we Americans
lose much of our native energy if we stay long over here."
"Hard?" she answered--"hard? Why, Mr. Noel, I am absolutely at your
feet!"
He looked at her, slightly startled, although his face showed nothing of
it; was she, after all, going to--But no; her sentence had been as
impersonal as those which had preceded it.
"All I said about having contrary opinions, and all that, amounts to
nothing," she went on, thereby relieving him from the necessity of
making reply. "I desire but one thing, and that is to have you guide me.
And I don't believe you are really going to refuse. You haven't an
unkind face, although you _have_ got such a cold way! Why, think of it:
here I have come all this long distance, bringing mother, too, just to
study, and to see you. I shall study hard; I have a good deal of
perseverance. It took a good deal to get here in the first place, for we
are poor. But I don't mind that at all; the only thing I should mind,
the only thing that would take my courage away, would be to have you
desert me. In all the troubles that I thought might happen, I assure
you, I never once thought of _that_, Mr. Noel. I thought, of course, you
would be interested. Why, in your books you are all interest. Are you
different from your books?"
"I fear, Miss Macks, that writers are seldom good illustrations of their
own doctrines," replied Noel.
"That would make them hypocrites. I don't believe you are a hypocrite. I
expect you have a habit of running yourself down. Many gentlemen do
that, and then they think they will be cried up. I don't believe you are
going to be unkind; you _will_ look at the pictures I have brought with
me, won't you?"
"Mr. Jackson's opinion is worth a hundred of mine, Miss Macks; my
knowledge is not technical. But, of course, if you wish it, I shall take
pleasure in obeying." He added several conventional remarks as
filling-up, and then, leaving his compliments for "your mother"--he
could not recall the name she had given--he went towards the little
curtained door.
She had brightened over his promise.
"You will come Monday, then, to see them, won't you?--as you cannot come
to-morrow," she said, smiling happily.
When she smiled (and she did not smile often), showing her little white,
child-like teeth, she looked very young. He was fairly caught, and
answered, "Yes." But he immediately qualified it with a "That is, if it
is possible."
"Oh, _make_ it possible," she answered, still smiling and going with him
herself to the outer door instead of summoning the maid. The last he saw
of her she was standing in the open doorway, her face bright and
contented, watching him as he went down. He did not go to see her
pictures on the following Monday; he sent a note of excuse.
Some days later he met her.
"Ah, you are taking one of the delightful walks?" he said. "I envy you
your first impressions of Rome."
"I am not taking a walk--that is, for pleasure," she answered. "I am
trying to find some vegetables that mother can eat; the vegetables here
are so foreign! You don't know how disappointed I was, Mr. Noel, when I
got your note. It was such a setback! Why couldn't you come right home
with me now--that is, after I have got the vegetables--and see the
pictures? It wouldn't take you fifteen minutes."
It was only nine o'clock, and a beautiful morning. He thought her such a
novelty, with her urgent invitations, her earnest eyes, and her basket
on her arm, that he felt the impulse to walk beside her a while through
the old streets of Rome; he was very fond of the old streets, and was
curious to see whether she would notice the colors and outlines that
made their picturesqueness. She noticed nothing but the
vegetable-stalls, and talked of nothing but her pictures.
He still went on with her, however, amused by the questions she put to
the vegetable-dealers (questions compiled from the phrase-books), and
the calm contempt with which she surveyed the Roman artichokes they
offered. At last she secured some beans, but of sadly Italian aspect,
and Noel took the basket. He was much entertained by the prospect of
carrying it home. He remarked to himself that of all the various things
he had done in Rome this was the freshest. They reached the street of
the Hyacinth and walked down its dark centre.
"I see you have the sun," he said, looking up.
"Yes; that is the reason we took the top floor. We will go right up.
Everything is ready."
He excused himself.
"Some other time."
They had entered the dusky hallway. She looked at him without replying;
then held out her hand for the basket. He gave it to her.
"I suppose you have seen Mr. Jackson?" he said, before taking leave.
She nodded, but did not speak. Then he saw two tears rise in her eyes.
"My dear young lady, you have been doing too much! You are tired. Don't
you know that that is very dangerous in Rome?"
"It is nothing. Mother has been sick, and I have been up with her two
nights. Then, as she did not like our servant, I dismissed her, and as
we have not got any one else yet, I have had a good deal to do. But I
don't mind that at all, beyond being a little tired; it was only your
refusing to come up, when it seemed so easy. But never mind; you will
come another day." And, repressing the tears, she smiled faintly, and
held out her hand for good-bye.
"I will come now," said Noel. He took the basket again, and went up the
stairs. He was touched by the two tears, but, at the same time, vexed
with himself for being there at all. There was not one chance in five
hundred that her work was worth anything; and, in the four hundred and
ninety-nine, pray what was he to say?
She brought him everything. They were all in the four hundred and
ninety-nine. In his opinion they were all extremely and essentially bad.
It was one of Raymond Noel's beliefs that, where women were concerned, a
certain amount of falsity was sometimes indispensable. There were
occasions when a man could no more tell the bare truth to a woman than
he could strike her; the effect would be the same as a blow. He was an
excellent evader when he chose to exert himself, and he finally got away
from the little high-up apartment without disheartening or offending its
young mistress, and without any very black record of direct
untruth--what is more, without any positive promise as to the exact date
of his next visit. But all this was a good deal of trouble to take for
a girl he did not know or care for.
Soon afterwards he met, at a small party, Mrs. Lawrence.
"Tell me a little, please, about the young lady to whom you presented me
at Mrs. Dudley's reception--Miss Macks," he said, after some
conversation.
"A little is all I can tell," replied Mrs. Lawrence. "She brought a
letter of introduction to me from a far-away cousin of mine, who lives
out West somewhere, and whom I have not seen for twenty years; my home,
you know, is in New Jersey. How they learned I was in Rome I cannot
imagine; but, knowing it, I suppose they thought that Miss Macks and I
would meet, as necessarily as we should if together in their own
village. The letter assures me that the girl is a great genius; that all
she needs is an opportunity. They even take the ground that it will be a
privilege for me to know her! But I am mortally tired of young geniuses;
we have so many here in Rome! So I told her at once that I knew nothing
of modern art--in fact, detested it--but that in any other way I should
be delighted to be of use. And I took her to Mrs. Dudley's _omnium
gatherum_."
"Then you have not been to see her?"
"No; she came to see me. I sent cards, of course; I seldom call. What
did you think of her?"
"I thought her charming," replied Noel, remembering the night-vigils,
the vegetables, the dismissed servant, and the two tears of the young
stranger--remembering, also, her extremely bad pictures.
"I am glad she has found a friend in you," replied Mrs. Lawrence. "She
was very anxious to meet you; she looks upon you as a great authority.
If she really has talent--of course _you_ would know--you must tell me.
It is not talent I am so tired of, but the pretence of it. She struck
me, although wofully unformed and awkward, of course, as rather
intelligent."
"She is intelligence personified," replied Noel, qualifying it mentally
with "intelligence without cultivation." He perceived that the young
stranger would have no help from Mrs. Lawrence, and he added to himself:
"And totally inexperienced purity alone in Rome." To be sure, there was
the mother; but he had a presentiment that this lady, as guardian, would
not be of much avail.
The next day he went down to Naples for a week with some friends. Upon
his return he stopped at Horace Jackson's studio one afternoon as he
happened to be passing. His time was really much occupied; he was a
favorite in Rome. To his surprise, Jackson seemed to think that Miss
Macks had talent. Her work was very crude, of course; she had been
brutally taught; teachers of that sort should simply be put out of
existence with the bowstring. He had turned her back to the alphabet;
and, in time, in time, they--would see what she could do.
Horace Jackson was English by birth, but he had lived in Italy almost
all his life. He was a man of forty-five--short, muscular, his thick,
rather shaggy, beard and hair mixed with gray; there was a permanent
frown over his keen eyes, and his rugged face had marked lines. He was a
man of strong individuality. He had the reputation of being the most
incorruptibly honest teacher in Rome. Noel had known him a long time,
and liked him, ill-tempered though he was. Jackson, however, had not
shown any especial signs of a liking for Noel in return. Perhaps he
thought that, in the nature of things, there could not be much in common
between a middle-aged, morose teacher, who worked hard, who knew nothing
of society, and did not want to know, and a man like Raymond Noel. True,
Noel was also an artist--that is, a literary one. But he had been highly
successful in his own field, and it was understood, also, that he had an
income of his own by inheritance, which, if not opulence, was yet
sufficiently large to lift him quite above the usual _res angusta_ of
his brethren in the craft. In addition, Jackson considered Noel a
fashionable man; and that would have been a barrier, even if there had
been no other.
As the Englishman seemed to have some belief in Miss Macks, Noel did not
say all he had intended to say; he did, however, mention that the young
lady had a mistaken idea regarding any use he could be to her; he should
be glad if she could be undeceived.
"I think she will be," said Jackson, with a grim smile, giving his guest
a glance of general survey that took him in from head to foot; "she
isn't dull."
Noel understood the glance, and smiled at Jackson's idea of him.
"She is not dull, certainly," he answered. "But she is
rather--inexperienced." He dismissed the subject, went home, dressed,
and went out to dinner.
One morning, a week later, he was strolling through the Doria gallery.
He was in a bad humor. There were many people in the gallery that day,
but he was not noticing them; he detested a crowd. After a while some
one touched his coat-sleeve from behind. He turned, with his calmest
expression upon his face; when he was in an ill-humor he was
impassively calm. It was Miss Macks, her eyes eager, her face flushed
with pleasure.
"Oh, what good luck!" she said. "And to think that I almost went to the
Borghese, and might have missed you! I am so delighted that I don't know
what to do. I am actually trembling." And she was. "I have so longed to
see these pictures with you," she went on. "I have had a real aching
disappointment about it, Mr. Noel."
Again Noel felt himself slightly touched by her earnestness. She looked
prettier than usual, too, on account of the color.
"I always feel a self-reproach when with you, Miss Macks," he
answered--"you so entirely over-estimate me."
"Well, if I do, live up to it," she said, brightly.
"Only an archangel could do that."
"An archangel who knows about Art! I have been looking at the Caraccis;
what do you think of them?"
"Never mind the Caraccis; there are better things to look at here." And
then he made the circuit of the gallery with her slowly, pointing out
the best pictures. During this circuit he talked to her as he would have
talked to an intelligent child who had been put in his charge in order
to learn something of the paintings; he used the simplest terms,
mentioned the marked characteristics, and those only of the different
schools, and spoke a few words of unshaded condemnation here and there.
All he said was in broad, plain outlines. His companion listened
earnestly. She gave him a close attention, almost always a
comprehension, but seldom agreement. Her disagreement she did not
express in words, but he could read it in her eyes. When they had seen
everything--and it took some time--
"Now," he said, "I want you to tell me frankly, and without reference to
anything I have said, your real opinion of several pictures I shall
name--that is, if you can remember?"
"I remember everything. I always remember."
"Very well. What do you think, then, of the Raphael double portrait?"
"I think it very ugly."
"And the portrait of Andrea Doria, by Sebastian del Piombo?"
"Uglier still."
"And the Velasquez?"
"Ugliest of all."
"And the two large Claude Lorraines?"
"Rather pretty; but insipid. There isn't any reality or meaning in
them."
"The Memling?"
"Oh, _that_ is absolutely hideous, Mr. Noel; it hasn't a redeeming
point."
Raymond Noel laughed with real amusement, and almost forgot his
ill-humor.
"When you have found anything you really admire in the galleries here,
Miss Macks, will you tell me?"
"Of course I will. I should wish to do so in any case, because, if you
are to help me, you ought to thoroughly understand me. There is one
thing more I should like to ask," she added, as they turned towards the
door, "and that is that you would not call me Miss Macks. I am not used
to it, and it sounds strangely; no one ever called me that in Tuscolee."
"What did they call you in Tuscolee?"
"They called me Miss Ettie; my name is Ethelinda Faith. But my friends
and older people called me just 'Ettie'; I wish you would, too."
"I am certainly older," replied Noel, gravely (he was thirty-three);
"but I do not like Ettie. With your permission, I will call you Faith."
"Do you like it? It's so old-fashioned! It was my grandmother's name."
"I like it immensely," he answered, leading the way down-stairs.
"You can't think how I've enjoyed it," she said, warmly, at the door.
"Yet you do not agree with my opinions?"
"Not yet. But all the same it was perfectly delightful. Good-bye."