My works are well known. I am a young man in the Art line. You have
seen my works many a time, though it's fifty thousand to one if you have
seen me. You say you don't want to see me? You say your interest is in
my works, and not in me? Don't be too sure about that. Stop a bit.
Let us have it down in black and white at the first go off, so that there
may be no unpleasantness or wrangling afterwards. And this is looked
over by a friend of mine, a ticket writer, that is up to literature. I
am a young man in the Art line--in the Fine-Art line. You have seen my
works over and over again, and you have been curious about me, and you
think you have seen me. Now, as a safe rule, you never have seen me, and
you never do see me, and you never will see me. I think that's plainly
put--and it's what knocks me over.
If there's a blighted public character going, I am the party.
It has been remarked by a certain (or an uncertain,) philosopher, that
the world knows nothing of its greatest men. He might have put it
plainer if he had thrown his eye in my direction. He might have put it,
that while the world knows something of them that apparently go in and
win, it knows nothing of them that really go in and don't win. There it
is again in another form--and that's what knocks me over.
Not that it's only myself that suffers from injustice, but that I am more
alive to my own injuries than to any other man's. Being, as I have
mentioned, in the Fine-Art line, and not the Philanthropic line, I openly
admit it. As to company in injury, I have company enough. Who are you
passing every day at your Competitive Excruciations? The fortunate
candidates whose heads and livers you have turned upside down for life?
Not you. You are really passing the Crammers and Coaches. If your
principle is right, why don't you turn out to-morrow morning with the
keys of your cities on velvet cushions, your musicians playing, and your
flags flying, and read addresses to the Crammers and Coaches on your
bended knees, beseeching them to come out and govern you? Then, again,
as to your public business of all sorts, your Financial statements and
your Budgets; the Public knows much, truly, about the real doers of all
that! Your Nobles and Right Honourables are first-rate men? Yes, and so
is a goose a first-rate bird. But I'll tell you this about the
goose;--you'll find his natural flavour disappointing, without stuffing.
Perhaps I am soured by not being popular? But suppose I AM popular.
Suppose my works never fail to attract. Suppose that, whether they are
exhibited by natural light or by artificial, they invariably draw the
public. Then no doubt they are preserved in some Collection? No, they
are not; they are not preserved in any Collection. Copyright? No, nor
yet copyright. Anyhow they must be somewhere? Wrong again, for they are
often nowhere.
Says you, "At all events, you are in a moody state of mind, my friend."
My answer is, I have described myself as a public character with a blight
upon him--which fully accounts for the curdling of the milk in _that_
cocoa-nut.
Those that are acquainted with London are aware of a locality on the
Surrey side of the river Thames, called the Obelisk, or, more generally,
the Obstacle. Those that are not acquainted with London will also be
aware of it, now that I have named it. My lodging is not far from that
locality. I am a young man of that easy disposition, that I lie abed
till it's absolutely necessary to get up and earn something, and then I
lie abed again till I have spent it.
It was on an occasion when I had had to turn to with a view to victuals,
that I found myself walking along the Waterloo Road, one evening after
dark, accompanied by an acquaintance and fellow-lodger in the gas-fitting
way of life. He is very good company, having worked at the theatres,
and, indeed, he has a theatrical turn himself, and wishes to be brought
out in the character of Othello; but whether on account of his regular
work always blacking his face and hands more or less, I cannot say.
"Tom," he says, "what a mystery hangs over you!"
"Yes, Mr. Click"--the rest of the house generally give him his name, as
being first, front, carpeted all over, his own furniture, and if not
mahogany, an out-and-out imitation--"yes, Mr. Click, a mystery does hang
over me."
"Makes you low, you see, don't it?" says he, eyeing me sideways.
"Why, yes, Mr. Click, there are circumstances connected with it that
have," I yielded to a sigh, "a lowering effect."
"Gives you a touch of the misanthrope too, don't it?" says he. "Well,
I'll tell you what. If I was you, I'd shake it of."
"If I was you, I would, Mr. Click; but, if you was me, you wouldn't."
"Ah!" says he, "there's something in that."
When we had walked a little further, he took it up again by touching me
on the chest.
"You see, Tom, it seems to me as if, in the words of the poet who wrote
the domestic drama of The Stranger, you had a silent sorrow there."
"I have, Mr. Click."
"I hope, Tom," lowering his voice in a friendly way, "it isn't coining,
or smashing?"
"No, Mr. Click. Don't be uneasy."
"Nor yet forg--" Mr. Click checked himself, and added, "counterfeiting
anything, for instance?"
"No, Mr. Click. I am lawfully in the Art line--Fine-Art line--but I can
say no more."
"Ah! Under a species of star? A kind of malignant spell? A sort of a
gloomy destiny? A cankerworm pegging away at your vitals in secret, as
well as I make it out?" said Mr. Click, eyeing me with some admiration.
I told Mr. Click that was about it, if we came to particulars; and I
thought he appeared rather proud of me.
Our conversation had brought us to a crowd of people, the greater part
struggling for a front place from which to see something on the pavement,
which proved to be various designs executed in coloured chalks on the
pavement stones, lighted by two candles stuck in mud sconces. The
subjects consisted of a fine fresh salmon's head and shoulders, supposed
to have been recently sent home from the fishmonger's; a moonlight night
at sea (in a circle); dead game; scroll-work; the head of a hoary hermit
engaged in devout contemplation; the head of a pointer smoking a pipe;
and a cherubim, his flesh creased as in infancy, going on a horizontal
errand against the wind. All these subjects appeared to me to be
exquisitely done.
On his knees on one side of this gallery, a shabby person of modest
appearance who shivered dreadfully (though it wasn't at all cold), was
engaged in blowing the chalk-dust off the moon, toning the outline of the
back of the hermit's head with a bit of leather, and fattening the down-
stroke of a letter or two in the writing. I have forgotten to mention
that writing formed a part of the composition, and that it also--as it
appeared to me--was exquisitely done. It ran as follows, in fine round
characters: "An honest man is the noblest work of God. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
0. Pounds s. d. Employment in an office is humbly requested. Honour
the Queen. Hunger is a 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 sharp thorn. Chip chop,
cherry chop, fol de rol de ri do. Astronomy and mathematics. I do this
to support my family."
Murmurs of admiration at the exceeding beauty of this performance went
about among the crowd. The artist, having finished his touching (and
having spoilt those places), took his seat on the pavement, with his
knees crouched up very nigh his chin; and halfpence began to rattle in.
"A pity to see a man of that talent brought so low; ain't it?" said one
of the crowd to me.
"What he might have done in the coach-painting, or house-decorating!"
said another man, who took up the first speaker because I did not.
"Why, he writes--alone--like the Lord Chancellor!" said another man.
"Better," said another. "I know his writing. He couldn't support his
family this way."
Then, a woman noticed the natural fluffiness of the hermit's hair, and
another woman, her friend, mentioned of the salmon's gills that you could
almost see him gasp. Then, an elderly country gentleman stepped forward
and asked the modest man how he executed his work? And the modest man
took some scraps of brown paper with colours in 'em out of his pockets,
and showed them. Then a fair-complexioned donkey, with sandy hair and
spectacles, asked if the hermit was a portrait? To which the modest man,
casting a sorrowful glance upon it, replied that it was, to a certain
extent, a recollection of his father. This caused a boy to yelp out, "Is
the Pinter a smoking the pipe your mother?" who was immediately shoved
out of view by a sympathetic carpenter with his basket of tools at his
back.
At every fresh question or remark the crowd leaned forward more eagerly,
and dropped the halfpence more freely, and the modest man gathered them
up more meekly. At last, another elderly gentleman came to the front,
and gave the artist his card, to come to his office to-morrow, and get
some copying to do. The card was accompanied by sixpence, and the artist
was profoundly grateful, and, before he put the card in his hat, read it
several times by the light of his candles to fix the address well in his
mind, in case he should lose it. The crowd was deeply interested by this
last incident, and a man in the second row with a gruff voice growled to
the artist, "You've got a chance in life now, ain't you?" The artist
answered (sniffing in a very low-spirited way, however), "I'm thankful to
hope so." Upon which there was a general chorus of "You are all right,"
and the halfpence slackened very decidedly.
I felt myself pulled away by the arm, and Mr. Click and I stood alone at
the corner of the next crossing.
"Why, Tom," said Mr. Click, "what a horrid expression of face you've
got!"
"Have I?" says I.
"Have you?" says Mr. Click. "Why, you looked as if you would have his
blood."
"Whose blood?"
"The artist's."
"The artist's?" I repeated. And I laughed, frantically, wildly,
gloomily, incoherently, disagreeably. I am sensible that I did. I know
I did.
Mr. Click stared at me in a scared sort of a way, but said nothing until
we had walked a street's length. He then stopped short, and said, with
excitement on the part of his forefinger:
"Thomas, I find it necessary to be plain with you. I don't like the
envious man. I have identified the cankerworm that's pegging away at
_your_ vitals, and it's envy, Thomas."
"Is it?" says I.
"Yes, it is," says be. "Thomas, beware of envy. It is the green-eyed
monster which never did and never will improve each shining hour, but
quite the reverse. I dread the envious man, Thomas. I confess that I am
afraid of the envious man, when he is so envious as you are. Whilst you
contemplated the works of a gifted rival, and whilst you heard that
rival's praises, and especially whilst you met his humble glance as he
put that card away, your countenance was so malevolent as to be terrific.
Thomas, I have heard of the envy of them that follows the Fine-Art line,
but I never believed it could be what yours is. I wish you well, but I
take my leave of you. And if you should ever got into trouble through
knifeing--or say, garotting--a brother artist, as I believe you will,
don't call me to character, Thomas, or I shall be forced to injure your
case."
Mr. Click parted from me with those words, and we broke off our
acquaintance.
I became enamoured. Her name was Henrietta. Contending with my easy
disposition, I frequently got up to go after her. She also dwelt in the
neighbourhood of the Obstacle, and I did fondly hope that no other would
interpose in the way of our union.
To say that Henrietta was volatile is but to say that she was woman. To
say that she was in the bonnet-trimming is feebly to express the taste
which reigned predominant in her own.
She consented to walk with me. Let me do her the justice to say that she
did so upon trial. "I am not," said Henrietta, "as yet prepared to
regard you, Thomas, in any other light than as a friend; but as a friend
I am willing to walk with you, on the understanding that softer
sentiments may flow."
We walked.
Under the influence of Henrietta's beguilements, I now got out of bed
daily. I pursued my calling with an industry before unknown, and it
cannot fail to have been observed at that period, by those most familiar
with the streets of London, that there was a larger supply. But hold!
The time is not yet come!
One evening in October I was walking with Henrietta, enjoying the cool
breezes wafted over Vauxhall Bridge. After several slow turns, Henrietta
gaped frequently (so inseparable from woman is the love of excitement),
and said, "Let's go home by Grosvenor Place, Piccadilly, and
Waterloo"--localities, I may state for the information of the stranger
and the foreigner, well known in London, and the last a Bridge.
"No. Not by Piccadilly, Henrietta," said I.
"And why not Piccadilly, for goodness' sake?" said Henrietta.
Could I tell her? Could I confess to the gloomy presentiment that
overshadowed me? Could I make myself intelligible to her? No.
"I don't like Piccadilly, Henrietta."
"But I do," said she. "It's dark now, and the long rows of lamps in
Piccadilly after dark are beautiful. I _will_ go to Piccadilly!"
Of course we went. It was a pleasant night, and there were numbers of
people in the streets. It was a brisk night, but not too cold, and not
damp. Let me darkly observe, it was the best of all nights--FOR THE
PURPOSE.
As we passed the garden wall of the Royal Palace, going up Grosvenor
Place, Henrietta murmured:
"I wish I was a Queen!"
"Why so, Henrietta?"
"I would make _you_ Something," said she, and crossed her two hands on my
arm, and turned away her head.
Judging from this that the softer sentiments alluded to above had begun
to flow, I adapted my conduct to that belief. Thus happily we passed on
into the detested thoroughfare of Piccadilly. On the right of that
thoroughfare is a row of trees, the railing of the Green Park, and a fine
broad eligible piece of pavement.
"Oh my!" cried Henrietta presently. "There's been an accident!"
I looked to the left, and said, "Where, Henrietta?"
"Not there, stupid!" said she. "Over by the Park railings. Where the
crowd is. Oh no, it's not an accident, it's something else to look at!
What's them lights?"
She referred to two lights twinkling low amongst the legs of the
assemblage: two candles on the pavement.
"Oh, do come along!" cried Henrietta, skipping across the road with me. I
hung back, but in vain. "Do let's look!"
Again, designs upon the pavement. Centre compartment, Mount Vesuvius
going it (in a circle), supported by four oval compartments, severally
representing a ship in heavy weather, a shoulder of mutton attended by
two cucumbers, a golden harvest with distant cottage of proprietor, and a
knife and fork after nature; above the centre compartment a bunch of
grapes, and over the whole a rainbow. The whole, as it appeared to me,
exquisitely done.
The person in attendance on these works of art was in all respects,
shabbiness excepted, unlike the former personage. His whole appearance
and manner denoted briskness. Though threadbare, he expressed to the
crowd that poverty had not subdued his spirit, or tinged with any sense
of shame this honest effort to turn his talents to some account. The
writing which formed a part of his composition was conceived in a
similarly cheerful tone. It breathed the following sentiments: "The
writer is poor, but not despondent. To a British 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0
Public he Pounds s. d. appeals. Honour to our brave Army! And also 0 9
8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 to our gallant Navy. BRITONS STRIKE the A B C D E F G
writer in common chalks would be grateful for any suitable employment
HOME! HURRAH!" The whole of this writing appeared to me to be
exquisitely done.
But this man, in one respect like the last, though seemingly hard at it
with a great show of brown paper and rubbers, was only really fattening
the down-stroke of a letter here and there, or blowing the loose chalk
off the rainbow, or toning the outside edge of the shoulder of mutton.
Though he did this with the greatest confidence, he did it (as it struck
me) in so ignorant a manner, and so spoilt everything he touched, that
when he began upon the purple smoke from the chimney of the distant
cottage of the proprietor of the golden harvest (which smoke was
beautifully soft), I found myself saying aloud, without considering of
it:
"Let that alone, will you?"
"Halloa!" said the man next me in the crowd, jerking me roughly from him
with his elbow, "why didn't you send a telegram? If we had known you was
coming, we'd have provided something better for you. You understand the
man's work better than he does himself, don't you? Have you made your
will? You're too clever to live long."
"Don't be hard upon the gentleman, sir," said the person in attendance on
the works of art, with a twinkle in his eye as he looked at me; "he may
chance to be an artist himself. If so, sir, he will have a
fellow-feeling with me, sir, when I"--he adapted his action to his words
as he went on, and gave a smart slap of his hands between each touch,
working himself all the time about and about the composition--"when I
lighten the bloom of my grapes--shade off the orange in my rainbow--dot
the i of my Britons--throw a yellow light into my cow-cum-_ber_--insinuate
another morsel of fat into my shoulder of mutton--dart another zigzag
flash of lightning at my ship in distress!"
He seemed to do this so neatly, and was so nimble about it, that the
halfpence came flying in.
"Thanks, generous public, thanks!" said the professor. "You will
stimulate me to further exertions. My name will be found in the list of
British Painters yet. I shall do better than this, with encouragement. I
shall indeed."
"You never can do better than that bunch of grapes," said Henrietta. "Oh,
Thomas, them grapes!"
"Not better than _that_, lady? I hope for the time when I shall paint
anything but your own bright eyes and lips equal to life."
"(Thomas, did you ever?) But it must take a long time, sir," said
Henrietta, blushing, "to paint equal to that."
"I was prenticed to it, miss," said the young man, smartly touching up
the composition--"prenticed to it in the caves of Spain and Portingale,
ever so long and two year over."
There was a laugh from the crowd; and a new man who had worked himself in
next me, said, "He's a smart chap, too; ain't he?"
"And what a eye!" exclaimed Henrietta softly.
"Ah! He need have a eye," said the man.
"Ah! He just need," was murmured among the crowd.
"He couldn't come that 'ere burning mountain without a eye," said the
man. He had got himself accepted as an authority, somehow, and everybody
looked at his finger as it pointed out Vesuvius. "To come that effect in
a general illumination would require a eye; but to come it with two
dips--why, it's enough to blind him!"
That impostor, pretending not to have heard what was said, now winked to
any extent with both eyes at once, as if the strain upon his sight was
too much, and threw back his long hair--it was very long--as if to cool
his fevered brow. I was watching him doing it, when Henrietta suddenly
whispered, "Oh, Thomas, how horrid you look!" and pulled me out by the
arm.
Remembering Mr. Click's words, I was confused when I retorted, "What do
you mean by horrid?"
"Oh gracious! Why, you looked," said Henrietta, "as if you would have
his blood."
I was going to answer, "So I would, for twopence--from his nose," when I
checked myself and remained silent.
We returned home in silence. Every step of the way, the softer
sentiments that had flowed, ebbed twenty mile an hour. Adapting my
conduct to the ebbing, as I had done to the flowing, I let my arm drop
limp, so as she could scarcely keep hold of it, and I wished her such a
cold good-night at parting, that I keep within the bounds of truth when I
characterise it as a Rasper.
In the course of the next day I received the following document:
"Henrietta informs Thomas that my eyes are open to you. I must ever
wish you well, but walking and us is separated by an unfarmable abyss.
One so malignant to superiority--Oh that look at him!--can never never
conduct
HENRIETTA
P.S.--To the altar."
Yielding to the easiness of my disposition, I went to bed for a week,
after receiving this letter. During the whole of such time, London was
bereft of the usual fruits of my labour. When I resumed it, I found that
Henrietta was married to the artist of Piccadilly.
Did I say to the artist? What fell words were those, expressive of what
a galling hollowness, of what a bitter mockery! I--I--I--am the artist.
I was the real artist of Piccadilly, I was the real artist of the
Waterloo Road, I am the only artist of all those pavement-subjects which
daily and nightly arouse your admiration. I do 'em, and I let 'em out.
The man you behold with the papers of chalks and the rubbers, touching up
the down-strokes of the writing and shading off the salmon, the man you
give the credit to, the man you give the money to, hires--yes! and I live
to tell it!--hires those works of art of me, and brings nothing to 'em
but the candles.
Such is genius in a commercial country. I am not up to the shivering, I
am not up to the liveliness, I am not up to the wanting-employment-in-an-
office move; I am only up to originating and executing the work. In
consequence of which you never see me; you think you see me when you see
somebody else, and that somebody else is a mere Commercial character. The
one seen by self and Mr. Click in the Waterloo Road can only write a
single word, and that I taught him, and it's MULTIPLICATION--which you
may see him execute upside down, because he can't do it the natural way.
The one seen by self and Henrietta by the Green Park railings can just
smear into existence the two ends of a rainbow, with his cuff and a
rubber--if very hard put upon making a show--but he could no more come
the arch of the rainbow, to save his life, than he could come the
moonlight, fish, volcano, shipwreck, mutton, hermit, or any of my most
celebrated effects.
To conclude as I began: if there's a blighted public character going, I
am the party. And often as you have seen, do see, and will see, my
Works, it's fifty thousand to one if you'll ever see me, unless, when the
candles are burnt down and the Commercial character is gone, you should
happen to notice a neglected young man perseveringly rubbing out the last
traces of the pictures, so that nobody can renew the same. That's me.