painter, having completed a picture of St. Francis, upon which he had
exhausted his utmost skill, and which seemed to him to be perfect, sent
for a young artist of great promise, Buonarotti by name, (who had also
been his pupil), and asked for his opinion of the work. The young man
contemplated it for some moments, said gravely, 'It needs but one
thing,' and departed. The master remained, to study the picture anew,
to pore over it hour after hour, and day after day, and rack his brain
with the question what it needed. Years after, when Buonarotti had
become Michael Angelo, and filled the world with his fame, Domenico
sent for him to come to his death-chamber. 'What did the picture
need?' he asked, faintly. 'Only speech,' replied Michael Angelo. The
old master smiled,--and died."
"It is a touching story," said Bergan. "And it is almost an allegory,
too. For 'only speech' is so often the great need of life! All our
deepest feeling and best thought are inarticulate. But am I to be
indulged with the rest of _this_ story, also?" he added, turning again
to the statue.
"I will give it you in brief," replied Astra, "by way of whetting your
appetite for the richer savors of the poem itself. Having driven his
stolen cattle to Alpheus, the infant god selected two fat heifers for
sacrifice. And here, it seems to me, is one of the finest touches in
the whole poem. After kindling his fire, slaying his heifers, and
offering a portion to each of the twelve gods,
----'his mind became aware
Of all the joys that in religion are.
For the sweet savor of the roasted meat
Tempted him, though immortal. Nathless
He checked his haughty will and did not eat,
Though what it cost him words can scarce express.'
Here, you see, is real self-denial and self-conquest,--for the sake of
making an acceptable sacrifice,--and their deep after delight."
"If the offering had been less ill-gotten," remarked Bergan, somewhat
dryly, "I think the 'touch' would have been still finer."
"I confess that I had forgotten all about that," said Astra, laughing,
"in my admiration of the infant god's mastery over himself. Still, we
cannot expect to find the purity of the Gospel standard of life in the
heathen mythology; we can but be thankful for the gleams of Divine
light here and there irradiating it, since a whole people long lived
and died under its sanction. But, at this rate, my story will never
end! The baby god next proceeded to remove every trace of his
holocaust, working all night 'in the serene moonshine.' Then, at break
of day, he betook himself to his natal cavern, crept quickly to his
cradle, pulled his 'ambrosial swaddling clothes about him,' and put on
a soft semblance of new-born innocence. In due time, Apollo, having
discovered the loss of his cattle, and suspecting who was the rogue,
came to the cavern, found the 'subtle, swindling baby,' lying 'swathed
in his sly wiles,' and taxed him with the theft. At once, the young
'god of lies' shows forth his character. He stoutly denies all
knowledge of the mischief; he pathetically declares,--
'I am but a little newborn thing,
Who yet, at least, can think of nothing wrong;
My business is to suck and sleep and fling
The cradle-clothes about me all day long,--
Or, half-asleep, hear my sweet mother sing,--
And to be washed in water clean and warm,
And hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm;--'
and, finally, he swears that he does not even know 'whatever things
cows are!' However, Apollo turns a deaf ear to all his wiles and
pleadings, and compels him to go before Jupiter; who laughs to hear his
plausible account of himself,--'and every word a lie,'--but finally
bids him show Apollo where he has hidden the stolen cattle. This he
does, 'nothing loath,' and finally subdues the sun-god
----'by the might,
Of winning music, to his mightier will:
. . . . . sweet as love,
The penetrating notes did live and move
Within the heart of great Apollo: he
Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure.'
"And here we may as well leave them. For the rest of the story,--as
well as for many pleasant pictures and nice touches, of which my
abstract gives no hint,--you should go to the poem itself."
"I shall be sure to do so," said Bergan, "with this arch, airy little
figure to lead the way. But it should be in marble, it seems to me,
rather than in plaster."
Astra smiled gravely. "For that, a patron--or, at least, a
purchaser--is needed. Marble is expensive as well as indestructible;
few artists can afford to put their works into its safe keeping,
without help. And perhaps it is as well that such is the case, else
Posterity would never be able to bear the stony accumulation that would
be heaped on its back."
"I think I can venture to promise that it would never feel this airy
creation to be a burden," said Bergan, earnestly.
"I hope not. But my little Mercury is still my youngest darling, and I
feel all a mother's partiality for it; I have no eyes for its faults.
When the inevitable time of disenchantment comes, and I am able to see
it as it is, I can better tell whether I care to commit it to the white
immortality of marble."
She continued to gaze at the statue for some moments with fond, dreamy,
wistful eyes,---just as a mother might regard her newborn infant.
Bergan felt a slight pang in beholding this nearness of the work to its
author, this strong, tender, indissoluble bond between the two. Would
ever any work of his--any brief, or plea--come from such a warm depth
of his heart, and embody so much of his life? A poet, a musician even,
might know something of this deep gladness of creation; but a lawyer, a
judge, dealing with dry reason and dusty legal enactments,--was there
any such joy in his work for him?
Leaving the question unanswered,--as he must needs do, until time and
experience should come, to his help,--Bergan turned anew to the
contemplation of the Mercury; which seemed to grow in beauty and power,
as he continued to look. It would be hard to say how much of this
pleasurable effect was due to the inherent charm of the work, and how
much to the spell shed from the rapt face and softly illuminated eyes
of the artist. Many a work that we look upon but coldly, would quickly
find its way to our hearts, if we knew enough of its history and its
author, to give us the clue to its subtler spirit and aim; while those
which we love without such knowledge, would, by its help, be
transfigured--glorified. If we could stand with Michael Angelo before
his "Moses," or with Guido before his triumphant "Archangel," what new
lights of interpretation would be lit for us at the eyes and lips of
those great masters!
Nor must it be said that the spectator may be dazzled by the artist's
enthusiasm into awarding the work higher praise than a cooler judgment
would sanction. For just here lies the truth which is too often
overlooked in criticism, both of literature and art. If the critic be
not in sympathy with the worker,--if he do not, in some measure, behold
the work through his eyes,--if he cannot discern what was attempted as
well as what is attained,--then his eyes will be partially holden both
from the beauties and the faults of the work. For nothing, in life or
art, was meant to be looked at by itself. Everything is related to
something else; each helps all. The moment wherein the spectator's
mood and the artist's work make sweet harmony, is the moment of correct
appreciation.
If Bergan did not understand what an illumination the presence of Miss
Lyte threw over her work, he was fully conscious that her work shed a
transfiguring light over her. The face under the whispering oak boughs
was not the same as this in the studio. That had been simply bright
and mobile, with a spice of _espiéglerie_; this was all alight and
astir with genius. Miss Lyte's very hand partook of the
transformation. Bergan had happened to notice its symmetrical shape,
as revealed by a careless gesture, at their first meeting; but he now
decided that it was not so much its beauty which had attracted his
attention, as a certain peculiarity of delicate energy and adroitness,
which ought of itself to have suggested its artistic skill.
Bergan's eye fell next on the pedestal of the Mercury, improvised by
turning up on end the packing-box in which it had arrived. The lid lay
on the floor, in two pieces, and was surmounted by a sturdy-looking
hammer and chisel. Bergan's glance went back to that slender hand,
with an unconscious question in it; which Astra was quick to understand.
"Why not?" said she, with a smile. "Of course, I might have called in
old Cato to open the box; but he would have done it so slowly and
awkwardly that I should have suffered tortures in watching him; it was
easier to do it myself. To be sure," she went on, taking up the hammer
and chisel, "these are not quite so fit for a lady's hands as the
lighter and slenderer implements that I use in modelling; but I like
them well, nevertheless. It would go hard with me, here in this quiet
country town, away from all aids and appliances of art, if I were not
on very good terms with purely mechanical labor. I made the mould,
from which that cast was taken, myself;"--she pointed to the Mercury.
Bergan looked as if he scarcely understood.
"I suppose you are aware," pursued Astra, "that the word 'sculptor' is
a misnomer, nowadays. The real sculpture--that is the
marble-cutting--except a few finishing touches, is done by artisans
skilled in that work. The plaster casts are made by regular casters,
from moulds taken from clay models. These last, only, are the work of
the artist throughout,--shaped by his fingers, and informed by his
thought. See! here is the raw material of my work!"
She pointed to a large triangular box, in one corner of her closet,
filled with fine, moist clay. She even leaned over it, and inhaled its
earthy odor, with a kind of affection.
Bergan also looked into it so long, so silently, and with so meditative
an aspect, that Miss Lyte finally interrupted the flow of his thoughts
with a question as to their character.
"I was thinking," replied he, "of the many differing shapes,--lovely,
grand, sorrowful, joyous, winning, repulsive,--that might be lurking
within your tub. And I was wondering which of them you would next call
forth."
"Think, rather," said Astra, smiling, "of all the shapes that I have
sent into it."
"You do not mean to say that you use the same clay over again,"
exclaimed Bergan, in surprise.
"Certainly, I do. It loses none of its adaptability by use. In that
tub is the original clay of everything that you see in my studio,--all
the busts, statues, and reliefs, that I have ever done, or tried to
do,--all my successes, and all my failures;--every one of them has gone
into that tub, even as it came out of it."
"Creation and death!" exclaimed Bergan. "'Dust thou art, and unto dust
thou shalt return.' It is a world in miniature!"
"And does it not also show that there is nothing new under the sun?"
said Astra. "It is always the old material in new shapes, the old
thought in new phraseology, the old human nature in new conditions,
even the old particles of disintegrated human bodies in new organisms."
"And yet," remarked Bergan, musingly, "the spirit, the idea, that
informed those bodies, and gave them identity, is not lost, as your
Mercury shows plainly. The being that you have created lives, and
glows with all his proper warmth and fire, even though his original
substance has not only returned whence it came, but has helped to frame
an entirely different being."
"The natural body and the spiritual body," returned Astra. "Not that
the two processes are really analogous,--I do not mean that,--but one
naturally suggests the other to the mind. And, seeing how I am thus
able to accomplish a kind of resurrection, in a way that I understand,
I do not find it difficult to believe that the Almighty can do it, in a
way that I do not understand, and far more perfectly,--retaining not
only the indwelling spirit, but enough of the individual clay to
justify Job's saying, 'In my flesh I shall see God.'"
The thought kept them both silent, for a moment; then Bergan turned to
see what else of interest was to be found in the studio.
The completed works were not many; Miss Lyte was still too young to
have made a large accumulation of such things. There was a bust, with
a very sweet and noble expression, wherein she had embodied her
recollections of a fellow student in art. There was a half-sleepy,
half-ashamed boy-face, looking out from under the shadow of a drooping
hat, representing "Little Boy Blue," of nursery fame. There was a
winged cherub, with an exceedingly lovely, innocent face,--a very
incarnation of celestial joy and peace. In relief, there was a stout
urchin, ankle-deep in water, laden with pond-lilies, and looking for
more. Finally, there were innumerable studies, sketches, and designs,
with all the warmth and freshness of the original inspiration lingering
about them; which interested Bergan scarcely less than the finished
work, as admitting him still more freely into the arcana of the
artist's mind and method.
He was especially interested to observe in how many directions the
genius of Miss Lyte had tried its wing. There were studies, and even
finished pictures, in oil and in crayon; there was an exquisitely-cut
cameo, fastened on a background of velvet; there were designs for
stained-glass windows; and in all, there was a curious medley of
subjects,--scriptural, mythological, historical, domestic, and
still-life. It was plain that she had been slowly feeling her way to
some point, where she could take her final stand, and see her life-work
lying clear and fair before her. Had she found it? Looking at the
Mercury, Bergan could almost believe that she had; but, glancing again
at her deep, wistful eyes, he doubted it. A little more time, a
profounder and wider experience, would settle her genius, fix her aims,
and make her capable of things far higher than aught that she had yet
achieved.
Meanwhile, never, he thought, was anything quite so inspiriting as her
conversation. As she went with him from statue to statue, and sketch
to sketch, talking frankly of her difficulties and struggles, her
failures and successes, her aims and aspirations,--now dropping a
fertile suggestion, now pointing out a subtile analogy, now giving the
key-note to some elevating strain of thought,--she seemed to radiate
energy, and exhale inspiration. Listening to her, Bergan's depression
and discouragement vanished like mists before the sunshine. When he
went back to his studio, it was with new strength and courage and
ambition. Somehow, life had ceased to look unsympathizing, and success
remote.
VII.
HIDDEN RICHES.
Up to this time, the history of Astra Lyte may be compressed into a few
sentences. She was the daughter of Dr. Harvey Lyte, who had been, for
many years, the leading physician of Berganton. Her artistic talent
having early manifested itself, her father had taken pleasure in
fostering and developing it; first, by giving her the benefit of
whatever rudimentary instruction the neighborhood offered, and then, by
affording her a year's enjoyment of the best art advantages to be
procured in New York.
Little more than a year ago, however, the good doctor had been forced
to succumb, in his own person, to the two powerful foes that he had
spent his lifetime in battling for others,--namely, disease and death.
His professional income necessarily dying with him, only a moderate
provision remained for his family; enough to enable them to eat the
bread of carefulness, but not sufficient to maintain them in the degree
of easy comfort and luxury to which they had long been accustomed. In
due time changes and sacrifices became necessary; among which may be
mentioned the letting of the vacant medical office to Doctor Remy, and
the subsequent handing over of other dispensable rooms to the occupancy
of Bergan Arling.
Before this last arrangement was effected, however, Astra had gone to
New York, to see what could be done to make her art productive of
something besides pleasure. That had been a very bright moment, amid
the gloom and straitness following upon her father's death, wherein it
had occurred to her that she possessed in brain and fingers, in her
wonderful power of kneading together thought and matter into beautiful
and significant shapes, the means of restoring to her mother the ease
and independence which had been impaired by her father's death. Never
had her art looked so divine as when it cast aside the soft drapery of
personal gratifications and aims, and stood forth a young athlete,
eager for strife, a sturdy son of toil, ready to earn its bread by the
sweat of its brow.
Not that Astra expected to win success all at once, or quickly. There
was a vast deal of practicality underlying her imaginativeness and
enthusiasm,--the solid foundation which is needed to make genius
available. She foresaw (no one more clearly) the difficulties, delays,
and disappointments, before her. But what of that? She was young; she
was in good health; she had a courageous heart, an energetic
temperament, and buoyant spirits; she could afford to work and wait.
Her tastes were simple, her wants, outside the domain of art,
few,--and, even there, deficiencies could be supplied, in a measure, by
severe study and closer application. If the superior masters, the
sojourn in Europe, to which she had looked forward, were denied her,
she was not going to break her heart nor cloud her brow, about it.
God, who had given her talent, would not leave it without due means of
increase. Her duty was to work, to be brave, and to be cheerful; all
else would come, in good time.
This, then, was the sort of a person who had now come to dwell under
the same roof with Bergan; and who straightway set to work in her
studio, which was divided from his office only by the airy breadth of
the main hall. Of course, he saw her frequently; her art afforded them
broader, freer ground upon which to meet than is always open to man and
woman. Not that the proprieties need have been scandalized had Miss
Lyte's occupation been the embroidering of roses in worsted, instead of
the modelling of figures in clay; for the door between studio and
sitting-room stood always open, and Mrs. Lyte, from her work-table,
frequently threw a passing remark into the conversation that came so
freely to her ears; while Cathie continually flashed in and out like a
fire-fly or a humming bird. But the worsted roses would scarcely have
constituted a subject of mutual interest for the young man and woman,
as did the clay figures; nor would the talks over them have run so
naturally, and almost inevitably, upon the same elevated and impersonal
plane of thought. Setting the worker entirely aside, Bergan could not
fail to be deeply interested in the work. He liked to understand its
process, and watch its progress. It was wonderful to him to see the
dull clay slowly taking the shape of the viewless, informing thought.
He went back to his office, not only with a deeper comprehension of the
respective functions of mind and matter, but with a wider view of their
scope and influence. Words, he saw, were also a kind of plastic
material, through which thought revealed itself to eye and ear. He
began to study expression, as well as meaning; he selected words, and
constructed sentences, with greater care and conscientiousness; he saw
that, since thought could only become visible through form, form was a
matter of more moment, and involved a stricter duty, than he had
hitherto believed.
But if Bergan learned so much from the work, it must be acknowledged
that he also learned something from the worker. She was so loyal to
her art and her aims. She wrought with such cheerful diligence, such
unwasting enthusiasm, and such thorough conscientiousness. Having done
the best of which she was capable, she maintained such a steady front
against the assaults of depression and discouragement, deploying their
forces upon the wide space between her conception and her achievement.
If she failed, she cheerfully declared that the failure had taught her
more than any success could have done, and commenced anew; if she
succeeded, she was soberly glad, as having gained an inch or two of the
field,--over which, however, it might be long ere she could wave the
banner of victory. The spectacle could not fail to have a healthful
influence upon Bergan, inasmuch as Miss Lyte's patrons were not more
numerous than his clients; he saw that she kept her face bright, and
her spirit brave, under very real trials of limitation, delay, and
disappointment. He always went to his own work with a stouter heart
and steadier purpose, after watching hers for some moments; whether she
merely retouched and revised the preceding day's labor, with minute,
inexhaustible patience; or quietly gathered up the fragments of a model
overtaken by sudden disaster; or moulded moist clay, with rapt face,
eyes lit by a deep, inward fire, and fingers so swift and forceful as
to suggest the guidance of some unseen power. In this last case, he
did not disturb her by so much as a word. He only looked on in silence
until her white heat of inspiration had kindled something like a
kindred glow in his own mind; when he noiselessly stole out, to plunge
into his own work with renewed ardor. We may well believe that, just
at the moment when Bergan's lonely life and dim prospects were
beginning to tell upon his spirits and energies, it was not without
providential design that an object so inspiring and heartening as Astra
Lyte in her studio, was placed before his eyes.
Nor was the benefit wholly on one side. Astra found real help and
cheer in Bergan's intelligent interest and hearty appreciation.
Moreover, he was quick to see whenever mechanical contrivance or manly
strength could come to her aid; and he knew how to furnish both, in fit
and delicate measure. His perceptions were scarcely less nice than her
own; he knew just when to extend the helping hand, and when to withdraw
it; neither hesitation nor officiousness marred his aid.
But Bergan was not the only visitor at the studio. Doctor Remy's
straight-featured, intellectual face was often to be seen there, with
its chill and satirical expression half-obliterated by a look of kindly
interest. And his aid was not less ready than Bergan's, and, perhaps,
more valuable. Hints and criticisms, suggested by his profound
anatomical and physiological knowledge, often came just in time to
prevent a blunder, or clinch a success.
So time rolled on, for another month or two, doing much for the growth
of acquaintance, and even a degree of intimacy, between the artist, the
lawyer, and the physician, thus thrown together under one roof, but
very little for the pecuniary advantage of the two former. Astra had
received a commission for a small portrait-medallion; Bergan had been
employed to draw up a few law-papers. The two often exchanged
good-humored jests upon the manifest ability of the world to get on
without their help. But it was a much more serious matter for the
young man than the maiden. Astra had understood that, Art being a
luxury, it must first create the demand which it meant to supply; but
Bergan knew well that law was neither unknown nor unsought, in
Berganton. Courts were held, and lawyers gathered, there; it was
strange that so little of the work came to his hands. Meanwhile, the
funds with which he had been supplied, on leaving home, were rapidly
melting away; and he was unwilling to apply for more, both because he
desired to be self-dependent, and disliked to admit failure.
He was sitting in his office, one afternoon, dividing his thoughts
between his books and the unpromising state of his affairs, when there
came a cautious knock at the door.
"Come in!" he called out, wondering if his long-expected client were
about to present himself.
First, appeared a black hand and a nondescript hat; next, a woolly head
and a wide, delighted grin; finally, a loose, slouching form, in a
shapeless suit of plantation gray. No client was this. It was only
his would-be property, Brick.
Perhaps Bergan's disappointment showed itself in his countenance, for
the negro hastily began to explain the reason of his coming.