There are few delusions more common with well-to-do people than the
belief that if “put to it” they could earn their own livelihood in
a variety of ways. Almost every man has some two or three or more
accomplishments which he fancies would be quite adequate to his support;
and remembering with what success the exercise of these gifts has ever
been hailed in the society of his friends, he has a sort of generous
dislike to be obliged to eclipse some poor drudge of a professional,
who, of course, will be consigned to utter oblivion after his own
performance.
Augustus Bramleigh was certainly not a conceited or a vain man, and yet
he had often, in his palmy days, imagined how easy it would be for him
to provide for his own support; he was something of a musician, he sang
pleasingly, he drew a little, he knew something of three or four modern
languages, he had that sort of smattering acquaintance with questions
of religion, politics, and literature which the world calls being
“well-informed;” and yet nothing short of grave Necessity revealed to
him that, towards the object of securing a livelihood, a cobbler in his
bulk was out and out his master.
The world has no need of the man of small acquirements, and would rather
have its shoes mended by the veriest botch of a professional than by the
cleverest amateur that ever studied a Greek sandal.
“Is it not strange, Nelly, that Brydges and Bowes won't take those songs
of mine?” said he, one morning, as the post brought him several letters.
“They say they are very pretty, and the accompaniments full of taste,
but so evidently wanting in originality--such palpable imitations of
Gordigiani and Mariani--they would meet no success. I ask you, Nelly, am
I the man to pilfer from any one? Is it likely I would trade on another
man's intellect?”
“That you certainly are not, Gusty! but remember who it is that utters
this criticism. The man who has no other test of goodness but a ready
sale, and he sees in this case little hope of such.”
“Rankin, too, refuses my 'Ghost Story;' he calls it too German, whatever
that may mean.”
“It means simply that he wants to say something, and is not very clear
what it ought to be. And your water-color sketch,--the 'Street in
Bruges'?”
“Worst of all,” cried he, interrupting. “Dinetti, with whom I have
squandered hundreds for prints and drawings, sends it back with these
words in red chalk on the back: 'No distance; no transparency; general
muddiness--a bad imitation of Prout's worst manner.'”
“How unmannerly, how coarse!”
“Yes; these purveyors to the world's taste don't mince matters with
their journeymen. They remind them pretty plainly of their shortcomings;
but considering how much of pure opinion must enter into these things,
they might have uttered their judgments with more diffidence.”
“They may not always know what is best, Gusty; but I take it, they can
guess very correctly as to what the public will think best.”
“How humiliating it makes labor when one has to work to please a popular
taste! I always had fancied that the author or the painter or the
musician stood on a sort of pedestal, to the foot of which came the
publisher, entreating that he might be permitted to catch the utterings
of genius, and become the channel through which they should flow into
an expectant world; and now I see it is the music-seller or the
print-seller is on the pedestal, and the man of genius kneels at his
feet and prays to be patronized.”
“I am sure, Gusty,” said she, drawing her arm within his, as he stood
at the window,--“I am sure we must have friends who would find you some
employment in the public service that you would not dislike, and you
would even take interest in. Let us see first what we could ask for.”
“No; first let us think of whom we could ask for it.”
“Well, be it so. There is Sir Francis Deighton; isn't he a Cabinet
Minister?”
“Yes. My father gave him his first rise in life; but I 'm not sure they
kept up much intimacy later on.”
“I'll write to him, Gusty; he has all the Colonial patronage, and could
easily make you governor of something tomorrow. Say 'yes;' tell me I may
write to him.”
“It's not a pleasant task to assign you, dear Nelly,” said he, with a
sad smile; “and yet I feel you will do it better than I should.”
“I shall write,” said she, boldly, “with the full assurance that Sir
Francis will be well pleased to have an opportunity to serve the son of
an old friend and benefactor.”
“Perhaps it is that my late defeats have made me cowardly--but I own,
Nelly, I am less than hopeful of success.”
“And I am full of confidence. Shall I show you my letter when I have
written it?”
“Better not, Nelly. I might begin to question the prudence of this, or
the taste of that, and end by asking you to suppress it all. Do what you
like, then, and in your own way.”
Nelly was not sorry to obtain permission to act free of all trammels,
and went off to her room to write her letter. It was not till after many
attempts that she succeeded in framing an epistle to her satisfaction.
She did not wish--while reminding Sir Francis of whom it was she
was speaking--to recall to him any unpleasant sentiment of an old
obligation; she simply adverted to her father's long friendship for him,
but dropped no hint of his once patronage. She spoke of their reverse in
fortune with dignity, and in the spirit of one who could declare proudly
that their decline in station involved no loss of honor, and she asked
that some employment might be bestowed on her brother, as upon one well
deserving of such a charge.
“I hope there is nothing of the suppliant in all this? I hope it is such
a note as Gusty would have approved of, and that my eagerness to succeed
has involved me in no undue humility.” Again and again she read it over;
revising this, and changing that, till at length grown impatient, she
folded it up and addressed it, saying aloud, “There! it is in the chance
humor of him who reads, not in the skill of the writer, lies the luck of
such epistles.”
“You forgot to call him Right Honorable, Nelly,” said Augustus, as he
looked at the superscription.
“I 'm afraid I 've forgotten more than that, Gusty; but let us hope for
the best.”
“What did you ask for?”
“Anything--whatever he can give you, and is disposed to give, I 've
said. We are in that category where the proverb says--there is no
choice.”
“I 'd not have said that, Nelly.”
“I know that, and it is precisely on that account that I said it for
you. Remember, Gusty, you changed our last fifty pounds in the world
yesterday.”
“That's true,” said he, sitting down near the table, and covering his
face with both hands.
“There's a gentleman below stairs, madam, wishes to know if he could see
Mr. Bramleigh,” said the landlady, entering the room.
“Do you know his name?” said Nelly, seeing that as her brother paid
no attention to the announcement, it might be as well not to admit a
visitor.
“This is his card, madam.”
“Mr. Cutbill!” said Nelly, reading aloud. “Gusty,” added she, bending
over him, and whispering in his ear, “would you see Mr. Cutbill?”
“I don't care to see him,” muttered he, and then rising, he added,
“Well, let him come up; but mind, Nelly, we must on no account ask him
to stay and dine with us.”
She nodded assent, and the landlady retired to introduce the stranger.