is the same—so much per diem. A series of water-colours giving minute
details of Persian life were wished; and a clever artist was found as
anxious to proceed as the writer was eager to obtain the sketches. The
commission was given, and the subjects desired carefully indicated
to the artist, who, by a rapid outline sketch in pencil, showed his
intelligence and grasp of the subject. The writer, delighted at the
thought of securing a correct and permanent record of the manners and
customs of a little-known people, congratulated himself. But, alas!
he counted his chickens before hatching; for the artist, on coming
with his next water-colour, demanded, and received, a double wage.
A similar result followed the finishing of each drawing; and though
the first only cost three shillings, and the second six, the writer
was reluctantly compelled to stop his commissions, after paying four
times the price of the first for his third water-colour, on the artist
demanding twenty-four shillings for a fourth—not that the work was
more, but as he found himself appreciated, the wily painter kept
to arithmetical progression as his scale of charge; a very simple
principle, which all artists must devoutly wish they could insist on.
For a reduced copy of a rather celebrated painting, of which the
figures were life-size, of what might be called, comparatively
speaking, a Persian old master—for this reduction, in oils, fourteen
inches by eight, and fairly well done, the charge was a sovereign.
The piece was painted on a panel. The subject is a royal banqueting
scene in Ispahan—the date a century and a half ago. The dresses are
those of the time—the ancient court costume of Persia. The king in a
brocaded robe is represented seated on a carpet at the head of a room,
his drinking-cup in his hand; while his courtiers are squatted in two
rows at the sides of the room, and are also carousing. Minstrels and
singers occupy the foreground of the picture; and a row of handsome
dancing-girls form the central group. All the figures are portraits of
historical personages; and in the copy, the likenesses are faithfully
retained.
The palaces of Ispahan are decorated with large oil-paintings by the
most eminent Persian artists of their day. All are life-size, and none
are devoid of merit. Some are very clever, particularly the likenesses
of Futteh Ali Shah and his sons, several of whom were strikingly
like their father. As Futteh Ali Shah had an acknowledged family of
seventy-two, this latter fact is curious. These paintings are without
frames, spaces having been made in the walls to receive them. The
Virgin Mary is frequently represented in these mural paintings; also
a Mr Strachey, a young diplomate who accompanied the English mission
to Persia in the reign of our Queen Elizabeth, is still admired as
a type of adolescent beauty. He is represented with auburn hair in
the correct costume of the period; and copies of his portrait are
still often painted on the pen-cases of amateurs. These pen-cases, or
_kalamdans_, are the principal occupation of the miniature-painter.
As one-fourth of the male population of Persia can write, and as each
man has one or more pen-cases, the artist finds a constant market for
his wares in their adornment. The pen-case is a box of _papier-mâché_
eight inches long, an inch and a half broad, and the same deep. Some of
them, painted by artists of renown, are of great value, forty pounds
being a common price to pay for such a work of art by a rich amateur.
Several fine specimens may be seen in the Persian Collection at the
South Kensington Museum. It is possible to spend a year’s hard work
on the miniatures painted on a pen-case. These are very minute and
beautiful. The writer possesses a pen-case painted during the lifetime
of Futteh Ali Shah, a king of Persia who reigned long and well. All the
faces—none more than a quarter of an inch in diameter—are likenesses;
and the long black beard of the king reaching to his waist, is not
exaggerated, for such beards are common in Persia.
Bookbinding in Persia is an art, and not a trade; and here the flower
and bird painter finds his employment. Bright bindings of boards with a
leather back are decorated by the artist, principally with presentments
of birds and flowers, both being a strange mixture of nature and
imagination; for if a Persian artist in this branch thinks that he can
improve on nature in the matter of colour, he attempts it. The most
startling productions are the result; his nightingales being birds of
gorgeous plumage, and the colours of some of his flowers saying much
for his imagination. This method of ‘painting the lily’ is common in
Persia; for the narcissus—bouquets of which form the constant ornament
in spring of even the poorest homes—is usually ‘improved’ by rings of
coloured paper, silk, or velvet being introduced over the inner ring
of petals. Startling floral novelties are the result; and the European
seeing them for the first time, is invariably deceived, and cheated
into admiration of what turns out afterwards to be a transparent trick.
Of course, this system of binding each book in an original cover of its
own, among a nation so literary as the Persians, gives a continuous and
healthy impetus to the art of the flower-painter.
Enamelling in Persia is a dying art. The best enamels are done on
gold, and often surrounded by a ring or frame of transparent enamel,
grass-green in colour. This green enamel, or rather transparent paste,
is supposed to be peculiar to the Persian artist. At times, the gold is
hammered into depressions, which are filled with designs in enamel on a
white paste, the spaces between the depressions being burnished gold.
Large _plaques_ are frequently enamelled on gold for the rich; and
often the golden water-pipes are decorated with enamels, either alone,
or in combination with incrusted gems.
Yet another field remains to the Persian artist—that of engraving
on gold, silver, brass, copper, and iron. Here the work is usually
artistically good, and always original, no two pieces being alike.
Something must be said about the artist and his studio. Abject poverty
is the almost universal lot of the Persian artist. He is, however, an
educated man, and generally well read. His marvellous memory helps him
to retain the traditional attributes of certain well-known figures:
the black-bearded Rūstum (the Persian Hercules), and his opponent
the Deev Suffid or White Demon; Leila and Mujnūn, the latter of whom
retired to the wilderness for love of the beautiful Leila; and in a
painfully attenuated state, all his ribs being very apparent, is always
represented as conversing with the wild beasts, who sit around him
in various attitudes of respectful attention. Dr Tanner could never
hope to reach the stage of interesting emaciation to which the Persian
artists represent Mujnūn to have attained. Another popular subject is
that of Solomon in all his glory.
These legends are portrayed with varying art but unquestionable
spirit, and often much humour; while the poetical legends of the
mythical history of ancient Persia, full of strange imagery, find apt
illustrators in the Persian artist. The palmy days of book-illustration
have departed; the cheap reprints of Bombay have taken away the
_raison d’être_ of the caligraphist and book-illustrators, and the few
really great artists who remain are employed by the present Shah in
illustrating his great copy of the _Arabian Nights_ by miniatures which
emulate the beauty and detail of the best specimens of ancient monkish
art, or in making bad copies of European lithographs to ‘adorn’ the
walls of the royal palaces.
As for the painter’s studio, it is usually a bare but light apartment,
open to the winds, in a corner of which, on a scrap of matting, the
artist kneels, sitting on his heels. (It tires an oriental to sit
in a chair.) A tiny table a foot high holds all his materials; his
paints are mixed on a tile; and his palette is usually a bit of
broken crockery. His brushes he makes himself. Water-pipe in mouth—a
luxury that even an artist can afford, in a country where tobacco
is fourpence a pound—his work held on his knee in his left hand,
without a mahl-stick or the assistance of a colour-man, the artist
squats contentedly at his work. He is ambitious, proud of his powers,
and loves his art for art’s sake. Generally, he does two classes of
work—the one the traditional copies of the popular scenes before
described, or the painting on pen-cases—by this he lives; the other
purely ideal, in which he deals with art from a higher point of view,
and practises the particular branch which he affects.
As a painter of likenesses, the Persian seldom succeeds in flattering.
The likeness is assuredly obtained; but the sitter is usually ‘guyed,’
and a caricature is generally the result. This is not the case in the
portraits of females, and in the ideal heads of women and children. The
large dreamy eye and long lashes, the full red lips, and naturally high
colour, the jetty or dark auburn locks (a colour caused by the use of
henna, a dye) of the Persian women in their natural luxuriance, lend
themselves to the successful production of the peculiarly felicitous
representation of female beauty in which the Persian artist delights.
Accuracy in costume is highly prized, and the minutiæ of dress are
indicated with much aptness, the varied pattern of a shawl or scarf
being rendered with almost Chinese detail. Beauty of the brunette
type is the special choice of the artist and amateur, and ‘salt’—as a
high-coloured complexion is termed—is much admired.
Like the ancient Byzantine artist, the Persian makes a free use of gold
and silver in his work. When wishing to represent the precious metals,
he first gilds or silvers the desired portion of the canvas or panel,
and then with a fine brush puts in shadows, &c. In this way a strangely
magnificent effect is produced. The presentments of mailed warriors
are done in this way; and the jewelled chairs, thrones, and goblets
in which the oriental mind delights. Gilt backgrounds, too, are not
uncommon, and their effect is far from displeasing.
The painting of portraits of Mohammed, Ali, Houssein, and Hassan—the
last three, relatives of the Prophet, and the principal martyred
saints in the Persian calendar, is almost a trade in itself, though
the representation of the human form is contrary to the Mohammedan
religion, and the saints are generally represented as veiled and
faceless figures. Yet in these particular cases, custom has over-ridden
religious law, and the _Schamayūl_ (or portrait of Ali) is common.
He is represented as a portly personage of swarthy hue; his dark and
scanty beard, which is typical of the family of Mohammed, crisply
curled; his hand is grasping his sword; and he is usually depicted as
wearing a green robe and turban (the holy colour of the _Seyyuds_ or
descendants of the Prophet). A nimbus surrounds his head; and he is
seated on an antelope’s skin, for the Persians say that skins were used
in Arabia before the luxury of carpets was known there.
Humble as is the lot of the Persian artist, he expects to be treated by
the educated with consideration, and would be terribly hurt at any want
of civility. One well-known man, Agha Abdullah of Shiraz, generally
insisted on regaling the writer with coffee, which he prepared himself
when his studio was visited. To have declined this would have been
to give mortal offence. On one of these visits, his little brasier
of charcoal was nearly extinguished, and the host had recourse to a
curious kind of fire-igniter, reviver, or rather steam-blast, that
as yet is probably undescribed in books. It was of hammered copper,
and had a date on it that made it three hundred years old. It was
fairly well modelled; and this curious domestic implement was in the
similitude of a small duck preening its breast; consequently, the open
beak, having a spout similar to that of a tea-kettle, was directed
downwards. The Persian poured an ounce or so of water into the copper
bird, and placed it on the expiring embers. Certainly the result
was surprising. In a few minutes the small quantity of water boiled
fiercely; a jet of steam was emitted from the open bill, and very
shortly the charcoal was burning brightly. The water having all boiled
away, the Persian triumphantly removed this scientific bellows with his
tongs, and prepared coffee.
No mention has been made of the curious bazaar pictures, sold for a few
pence. These cost little, but are very clever, and give free scope for
originality, which is the great characteristic of the Persian artist.
They consist of studies of town-life, ideal pictures of dancing-girls,
and such-like. All are bold, ingenious, and original. But bazaar
pictures would take a chapter to themselves, and occupy more space than
can be spared.
COLONEL REDGRAVE’S LEGACY.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.
We must ask the reader to accompany us to Bury Street, St James’s,
and learn how Miss Jones has borne the calamity of her lodger’s
good fortune; for calamity Martha considered the munificent legacy
of Colonel Redgrave, so far as her own matrimonial prospects were
concerned. If these prospects were dubious prior to his death, they
were now nearly hopeless. This was a fact the housekeeper was unable
to conceal from herself, in spite of her efforts to take a sanguine
view of affairs. The letters of Septimus were more business-like than
ever; and Miss Jones agreed with her mother that if Septimus chose to
contract a matrimonial alliance, they would be powerless to interpose
the smallest obstacle to prevent it. About this time, Mr Bradbury, the
second occupant of apartments in Bury Street, returned from Monaco,
where he had been spending his annual vacation. Mr Bradbury was a
lawyer and a bachelor, and about sixty-five years of age. He was in
no respect a favourite with Miss Jones, who in the course of a long
residence had learned some of the faults and failings of her legal
tenant. The most important of these was a love of gambling. At times,
the mental depression of the lawyer was so excessive, that Martha
entertained fears that he would be guilty of some rash act which
would render notorious the hitherto quiet house in Bury Street. But a
sudden turn in Fortune’s wheel would disperse the mental clouds of the
gambler, and he would resume his usual cheerful manner and speech. On
the evening of his arrival from Monaco, he dined in a more than usual
_recherché_ manner, and when the dessert had been placed on the table,
he requested the presence of Miss Jones for a brief space, to discuss
a very important matter of business. Mr Bradbury was a thin, spare
man, with keen restless gray eyes, which took in the surroundings at a
glance. He sat in his luxurious armchair, with his feet crossed on a
footstool, and as he held up a glass of ’47 port to the light of the
chandelier, he looked the picture of comfort and happy enjoyment. Yet
was the mind of that man racked with consuming cares, for he had had a
bad time of it at Monaco, and he had not only lost his own cash, but
a considerable sum belonging to other people, in the shape of trust
moneys, &c. He requested Miss Jones to be seated, also to take a glass
of wine. Miss Jones complied with the first request, but declined the
second.
‘I have only learned the death of Colonel Redgrave at Shanklin since
my return to London. I must have accidentally omitted at Monaco
reading that portion of the _Times_ which contained the announcement.
On a memorable occasion I transacted some legal business for him. My
fellow-lodger Mr Redgrave appears to have tumbled into a good thing in
the shape of a very handsome legacy.’ Mr Bradbury paused a moment; but
Miss Jones made no response, but sat with her large black eyes fixed on
the twitching features of the lawyer, who was now evidently under the
influence of strong excitement. ‘I have not lived all these years under
your comfortable roof, Miss Jones, without becoming acquainted with the
special relations which exist between Mr Redgrave and yourself.’ Again
the lawyer paused, in expectation of Miss Jones making some reply. ‘I
mean that I have ever considered Miss Jones as the certain and future
Mrs Redgrave.’
‘You can hardly expect me, Mr Bradbury, to answer such a statement,’
replied Martha in a somewhat severe tone.
‘I cannot. But it is necessary that I should assume such to be the
case. You do not deny it? Now, I can put twenty thousand pounds into
the scale which contains your right to become Mrs Redgrave, and I can
deprive him of that amount, if he declines to make you his wife. I do
not wish to speak against your future husband, but he is selfish and
avaricious, and I think he will succumb to the temptation I have it in
my power to lay before him. A short time before I started for Monaco,
Colonel Redgrave called on me at my office. I had known him many years
ago in India. He desired me to draw up a will, in which he revoked the
bequest to Mr Septimus Redgrave _in toto_. He had not been prepossessed
with his cousin latterly; in fact, he had conceived the most intense
dislike for him. He preferred that I should execute the will, instead
of employing Mr Lockwood, the son of the late family lawyer, for what
reason I know not.’ Mr Bradbury rose from his chair, and unlocking a
small cabinet, produced a folded parchment suitably indorsed. ‘Here is
the veritable last will and testament of the late COLONEL REDGRAVE,
in which the date and purport of the previous will are specially
mentioned, duly signed and properly witnessed, I need scarcely say.
If I were to put it in yonder fire, nothing could disturb Mr Redgrave
in the enjoyment of his legacy. Now, I am going to place implicit
confidence in your honour, Miss Jones. I shall require ten per cent.,
or two thousand pounds. You shall require the hand in marriage of Mr
Septimus Redgrave. Should he refuse these terms, this will shall be
enforced, and Mr Redgrave loses twenty thousand pounds, and a lady who,
I am convinced, would make him an excellent wife. You will naturally
say: “Why should Mr Bradbury run the risk of penal servitude for such a
sum as two thousand pounds?” In reply, I deny that I run any risk, and
that sum of money will stave off heavier consequences than I care to
name.’
It would be difficult to describe the whirlwind of mental emotion
which agitated the bosom of Martha as she listened to the harangue
of the lawyer. On the one hand she saw the possibility of realising
her life-long ambition, of becoming the wife of a man with an income
of nearly two thousand a year, not to speak of the social position
attending it. Martha remembered reading a novel by one of the most
popular authors of our time, wherein the heroine committed a far more
heinous offence with respect to a will than its mere suppression,
and yet the delinquent preserved not only the love and esteem of all
the characters of the tale, but even the good opinion of the readers
thereof.
The lawyer watched the flushed cheek of his listener with feelings of
hope, and plied poor Martha with such specious arguments as to the
nullity of risk and the immense gain to be derived from the prosecution
of his plan, that she at length consented to proceed to Shanklin by an
early train on the following morning and seek a private interview with
Mr Redgrave. As she rose to depart, Martha inquired of the lawyer the
name of the fortunate recipient of the legacy. ‘Miss Blanche Fraser,’
was the reply.
* * * * *
Mr Redgrave was considerably astonished on the morning following the
interview we have described when Miss Jones was announced. He pulled
out his watch, and finding it wanted an hour to luncheon, decided to
see her at once. He found Martha in the library. She was pale and
excited. ‘Well, Martha, I hope nothing is the matter? All well in Bury
Street?’
‘Yes, Mr Redgrave. I wish to speak to you in private.’
‘Well, speak away, Martha,’ retorted Septimus, somewhat testily.
‘Pardon me; walls have ears. Can we not go into the grounds?’
Septimus paused a moment, surprised at the request, but presently
assented. He led the way through the hall, and finally stopped in a
small orchard adjoining the garden. ‘Now, Martha, you can speak with as
much security as if you were in the middle of Salisbury Plain.’
‘I am the bearer of ill news.’
Septimus turned pale as he beheld the unaccustomed expression of the
features of the speaker.
‘But it is in my power to ward off the blow, or, I should say, in
_your_ power. I will come to the point at once. The late Colonel
Redgrave employed Mr Bradbury to make a subsequent will, in which he
annulled the will by which you inherit your legacy.’
Septimus felt his knees tremble beneath him, his teeth chattered, and
he staggered towards a garden-seat which was close at hand.
Martha beheld with satisfaction the effect of the communication upon
her auditor.
He gasped forth: ‘And who is the legatee?’
‘Miss Blanche Fraser.’
‘Gracious powers! The lady to whom I proposed!’ These words were not
lost on Martha. They gave her increased determination to proceed with
her dangerous mission.
‘You can still retain the fortune, if you will perform an act of tardy
justice.’
‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Septimus, with a lurking suspicion of the
nature of the act required.
‘Listen patiently for a few moments. For twenty-five years you have
been a resident under my mother’s roof; during fifteen years of that
time you have treated me as something more than a housekeeper; you have
treated me as a friend. In return, I have been to you as a sister. I
have watched over your comforts in health, have nursed you in sickness,
and wasted all my young days in waiting for the moment when you would
reward my life-long devotion by making me your wife.’
‘My wife!’ retorted Septimus angrily. ‘Ridiculous!’
‘Unless you do so,’ pursued Martha, ‘the second will will be put in
force.’
‘And how do you propose to set aside that will, if you become my wife?’
exclaimed Septimus.
‘By simply putting it into the fire,’ replied Martha in a calm decided
tone.
Now, it was almost instantaneously apparent to Martha that both she
and Mr Bradbury had displayed a deplorable lack of judgment, when they
unanimously came to the conclusion that Septimus Redgrave would eagerly
seize the bait held out to him by the destruction of the second will.
Selfish and avaricious he might be, but not sufficiently so to induce
him to stain his conscience with the commission of so great a crime as
that suggested to him by a man in dire extremity, and a woman who hoped
to realise her life-long ambition by one grand _coup_.
‘You cannot mean what you say, Miss Jones, at least I hope not,’
exclaimed Septimus in a severe tone. ‘You have been led into this by
that man Bradbury, whom I have always considered a great scoundrel.’
‘You refuse my offer then?’ said Martha in a voice pregnant with
despair.
‘I will not condescend to answer you,’ said Septimus. ‘You had better
return at once to London. I cannot offer you any hospitality. In the
first place, my sisters have a strong prejudice against you, which I
must say is not without warrant; and in the second place, I am engaged
to be married to the mother of the fortunate legatee. So, if I do
not become the possessor of the wealth of the late Colonel Redgrave,
my wife’s daughter will inherit; so the money will still be in the
family.—Good-morning.’
Septimus bowed, and would have left the unhappy Martha without further
speech; but the housekeeper caught him by the arm, as she cried in
hoarse accents: ‘At least you will promise never to mention to any
human being the scheme I proposed for your benefit?’
‘I promise,’ curtly replied Septimus, and left the orchard without
more ado, the wretched Martha gazing after his retreating figure with
features on which despair in its acutest phase was deeply written.
We have but little to add respecting the personages who have figured
in our tale. Mrs Fraser was, as the reader will readily imagine,
inexpressibly mortified at so suddenly losing the legacy bequeathed by
the late Colonel Redgrave. But if anything could soften the blow, it
was the fact that the fortunate recipient was her only child, her dear
Blanche, who was shortly afterwards married to Mr Frank Lockwood. On
the same day Mrs Fraser changed her name for that of Redgrave.
Septimus never entered the house in Bury Street again, employing an
agent for the removal of his household gods and the numerous curios he
had accumulated during his long residence as the tenant of Mrs Jones.
Immediately after the failure of his nefarious plot, Mr Bradbury posted
the second will to Miss Blanche Fraser, and immediately thereafter
disappeared from Bury Street and Lincoln’s Inn. Several unfortunate
individuals suffered severely in consequence, as it was found that
large sums intrusted to him by confiding clients had disappeared,
‘leaving not a wrack behind.’
Mr Lockwood is now one of the most rising solicitors in London; his
undeniable abilities, by a singular coincidence, being universally
recognised immediately after the inheritance by his wife of Colonel
Redgrave’s legacy.
WHAT’S IN A NAME?