ONCE upon a time there raged in a certain city one of those fashionable
epidemics which occasionally attack our youthful population. It wasn’t
the music mania, nor gymnastic convulsions, nor that wide-spread malady,
croquet. Neither was it one of the new dances which, like a
tarantula-bite, set every one a twirling, nor stage madness, nor yet
that American lecturing influenza which yearly sweeps over the land. No,
it was a new disease called the Art fever, and it attacked the young
women of the community with great violence.
Nothing but time could cure it, and it ran its course to the dismay,
amusement, or edification of the beholders, for its victims did all
manner of queer things in their delirium. They besieged potteries for
clay, drove Italian plaster-workers out of their wits with unexecutable
orders, got neuralgia and rheumatism sketching perched on fences and
trees like artistic hens, and caused a rise in the price of bread,
paper, and charcoal, by their ardor in crayoning. They covered canvas
with the expedition of scene-painters, had classes, lectures,
receptions, and exhibitions, made models of each other, and rendered
their walls hideous with bad likenesses of all their friends. Their
conversation ceased to be intelligible to the uninitiated, and they
prattled prettily of “chiaro oscuro, French sauce, refraction of the
angle of the eye, seventh spinus process, depth and juiciness of color,
tender touch, and a good tone.” Even in dress the artistic disorder was
visible; some cast aside crinoline altogether, and stalked about with a
severe simplicity of outline worthy of Flaxman. Others flushed
themselves with scarlet, that no landscape which they adorned should be
without some touch of Turner’s favorite tint. Some were _blue_ in every
sense of the word, and the heads of all were adorned with classic
braids, curls tied Hebe-wise, or hair dressed à la hurricane.
It was found impossible to keep them safe at home, and, as the fever
grew, these harmless maniacs invaded the sacred retreats where artists
of the other sex did congregate, startling those anchorites with visions
of large-eyed damsels bearing portfolios in hands delicately begrimed
with crayon, chalk, and clay, gliding through the corridors hitherto
haunted only by shabby paletots, shadowy hats, and cigar smoke. This
irruption was borne with manly fortitude, not to say cheerfulness, for
studio doors stood hospitably open as the fair invaders passed, and
studies from life were generously offered them in glimpses of
picturesque gentlemen posed before easels, brooding over master-pieces
in “a divine despair,” or attitudinizing upon couches as if exhausted by
the soarings of genius.
An atmosphere of romance began to pervade the old buildings when the
girls came, and nature and art took turns. There were peepings and
whisperings, much stifled laughter and whisking in and out; not to
mention the accidental rencontres, small services, and eye telegrams,
which somewhat lightened the severe studies of all parties.
Half a dozen young victims of this malady met daily in one of the cells
of a great art bee-hive called “Raphael’s Rooms,” and devoted their
shining hours to modelling fancy heads, gossiping the while; for the
poor things found the road to fame rather dull and dusty without such
verbal sprinklings.
“Psyche Dean, you’ve had an adventure! I see it in your face; so tell it
at once, for we are as stupid as owls here to-day,” cried one of the
sisterhood, as a bright-eyed girl entered with some precipitation.
“I dropped my portfolio, and a man picked it up, that’s all,” replied
Psyche, hurrying on her gray linen pinafore.
“That won’t do; I know something interesting happened, for you’ve been
blushing, and you look brisker than usual this morning,” said the first
speaker, polishing off the massive nose of her Homer.
“It wasn’t anything,” began Pysche a little reluctantly. “I was coming
up in a hurry when I ran against a man coming down in a hurry. My
portfolio slipped, and my papers went flying all about the landing. Of
course we both laughed and begged pardon, and I began to pick them up,
but he wouldn’t let me; so I held the book while he collected the
sketches. I saw him glance at them as he did so, and that made me blush,
for they are wretched things, you know.”
“Not a bit of it; they are capital, and you are a regular genius, as we
all agree,” cut in the Homeric Miss Cutter.
“Never tell people they are geniuses unless you wish to spoil them,”
returned Psyche severely. “Well, when the portfolio was put to rights I
was going on, but he fell to picking up a little bunch of violets I had
dropped; you know I always wear a posy into town to give me inspiration.
I didn’t care for the dusty flowers, and told him so, and hurried away
before any one came. At the top of the stairs I peeped over the railing,
and there he was, gathering up every one of those half-dead violets as
carefully as if they had been tea-roses.”
“Psyche Dean, you have met your fate this day!” exclaimed a third
damsel, with straw-colored tresses, and a good deal of weedy shrubbery
in her hat, which gave an Ophelia-like expression to her sentimental
countenance.
Psyche frowned and shook her head, as if half sorry she had told her
little story.
“Was he handsome?” asked Miss Larkins, the believer in fate.
“I didn’t particularly observe.”
“It was the red-headed man, whom we call Titian: he’s always on the
stairs.”
“No, it wasn’t; his hair was brown and curly,” cried Psyche, innocently
falling into the trap.
“Like Peerybingle’s baby when its cap was taken off,” quoted Miss
Dickenson, who pined to drop the last two letters of her name.
“Was it Murillo, the black-eyed one?” asked the fair Cutter, for the
girls had a name for all the attitudinizers and promenaders whom they
oftenest met.
“No, he had gray eyes, and very fine ones they were too,” answered
Psyche, adding, as if to herself, “he looked as I imagine Michael Angelo
might have looked when young.”
“Had he a broken nose, like the great Mike?” asked an irreverent damsel.
“If he had, no one would mind it, for his head is splendid; he took his
hat off, so I had a fine view. He isn’t handsome, but he’ll _do_
something,” said Psyche, prophetically, as she recalled the strong,
ambitious face which she had often observed, but never mentioned before.
“Well, dear, considering that you didn’t ‘particularly look’ at the man,
you’ve given us a very good idea of his appearance. We’ll call him
Michael Angelo, and he shall be your idol. I prefer stout old Rembrandt
myself, and Larkie adores that dandified Raphael,” said the lively
Cutter, slapping away at Homer’s bald pate energetically, as she spoke.
“Raphael is a dear, but Rubens is more to my taste now,” returned Miss
Larkins. “He was in the hall yesterday talking with Sir Joshua, who had
his inevitable umbrella, like a true Englishman. Just as I came up, the
umbrella fell right before me. I started back; Sir Joshua laughed, but
Rubens said, ‘Deuce take it!’ and caught up the umbrella, giving me a
never-to-be-forgotten look. It was perfectly thrilling.”
“Which,—the umbrella, the speech, or the look?” asked Psyche, who was
not sentimental.
“Ah, you have no soul for art in nature, and nature in art,” sighed the
amber-tressed Larkins. “I have, for I feed upon a glance, a tint, a
curve, with exquisite delight. Rubens is adorable (_as a study_); that
lustrous eye, that night of hair, that sumptuous cheek, are perfect. He
only needs a cloak, lace collar, and slouching hat to be the genuine
thing.”
“This isn’t the genuine thing by any means. What _does_ it need?” said
Psyche, looking with a despondent air, at the head on her stand.
Many would have pronounced it a clever thing; the nose was strictly
Greek, the chin curved upward gracefully, the mouth was sweetly haughty,
the brow classically smooth and low, and the breezy hair well done. But
something was wanting; Psyche felt that, and could have taken her Venus
by the dimpled shoulders, and given her a hearty shake, if that would
have put strength and spirit into the lifeless face.
“Now _I_ am perfectly satisfied with my Apollo, though you all insist
that it is the image of Theodore Smythe. He says so himself, and assures
me it will make a sensation when we exhibit,” remarked Miss Larkins,
complacently caressing the ambrosial locks of her Smythified Phebus.
“What shall you do if it does not?” asked Miss Cutter, with elegance.
“I shall feel that I have mistaken my sphere, shall drop my tools, veil
my bust, and cast myself into the arms of Nature, since Art rejects me;”
replied Miss Larkins, with a tragic gesture and an expression which
strongly suggested that in her eyes nature meant Theodore.
“She must have capacious arms if she is to receive all Art’s rejected
admirers. Shall I be one of them?”
Psyche put the question to herself as she turned to work, but somehow
ambitious aspirations were not in a flourishing condition that morning;
her heart was not in tune, and head and hands sympathized. Nothing went
well, for certain neglected home-duties had dogged her into town, and
now worried her more than dust, or heat, or the ceaseless clatter of
tongues. Tom, Dick, and Harry’s unmended hose persisted in dancing a
spectral jig before her mental eye, mother’s querulous complaints spoilt
the song she hummed to cheer herself, and little May’s wistful face put
the goddess of beauty entirely out of countenance.
“It’s no use; I can’t work till the clay is wet again. Where is
Giovanni?” she asked, throwing down her tools with a petulant gesture
and a dejected air.
“He is probably playing truant in the empty upper rooms, as usual. I
can’t wait for him any longer, so I’m doing his work myself,” answered
Miss Dickenson, who was tenderly winding a wet bandage round her Juno’s
face, one side of which was so much plumper than the other that it
looked as if the Queen of Olympus was being hydropathically treated for
a severe fit of ague.
“I’ll go and find the little scamp; a run will do me good; so will a
breath of air and a view of the park from the upper windows.”
Doffing her apron, Psyche strolled away up an unfrequented staircase to
the empty apartments, which seemed to be too high even for the lovers of
High Art. On the western side they were shady and cool, and, leaning
from one of the windows, Psyche watched the feathery tree-tops ruffled
by the balmy wind, that brought spring odors from the hills, lying green
and sunny far away. Silence and solitude were such pleasant companions
that the girl forgot herself, till a shrill whistle disturbed her
day-dreams, and reminded her what she came for. Following the sound she
found the little Italian errand-boy busily uncovering a clay model which
stood in the middle of a scantily furnished room near by.
“He is not here; come and look; it is greatly beautiful,” cried
Giovanni, beckoning with an air of importance.
Psyche did look and speedily forgot both her errand and herself. It was
the figure of a man, standing erect, and looking straight before him
with a wonderfully life-like expression. It was neither a mythological
nor a historical character, Psyche thought, and was glad of it, being
tired to death of gods and heroes. She soon ceased to wonder what it
was, feeling only the indescribable charm of something higher than
beauty. Small as her knowledge was, she could see and enjoy the power
visible in every part of it; the accurate anatomy of the vigorous limbs,
the grace of the pose, the strength and spirit in the countenance, clay
though it was. A majestic figure, but the spell lay in the face, which,
while it suggested the divine, was full of human truth and tenderness,
for pain and passion seemed to have passed over it, and a humility half
pathetic, a courage half heroic seemed to have been born from some great
loss or woe.
How long she stood there Psyche did not know. Giovanni went away unseen,
to fill his water-pail, and in the silence she just stood and looked.
Her eyes kindled, her color rose, despondency and discontent vanished,
and her soul was in her face, for she loved beauty passionately, and all
that was best and truest in her did honor to the genius of the unknown
worker.
“If I could do a thing like that, I’d die happy!” she exclaimed
impetuously, as a feeling of despair came over her at the thought of her
own poor attempts.
“Who did it, Giovanni?” she asked, still looking up at the grand face
with unsatisfied eyes.
“Paul Gage.”
It was not the boy’s voice, and, with a start, Psyche turned to see her
Michael Angelo, standing in the doorway, attentively observing her.
Being too full of artless admiration to think of herself just yet, she
neither blushed nor apologized, but looked straight at him, saying
heartily,—
“You have done a wonderful piece of work, and I envy you more than I can
tell!”
The enthusiasm in her face, the frankness of her manner, seemed to
please him, for there was no affectation about either. He gave her a
keen, kind glance out of the “fine gray eyes,” a little bow, and a
grateful smile, saying quietly,—
“Then my Adam is not a failure in spite of his fall?”
Psyche turned from the sculptor to his model with increased admiration
in her face, and earnestness in her voice, as she exclaimed delighted,—
“Adam! I might have known it was he. O sir, you have indeed succeeded,
for you have given that figure the power and pathos of the first man who
sinned and suffered, and began again.”
“Then I am satisfied.” That was all he said, but the look he gave his
work was a very eloquent one, for it betrayed that he had paid the price
of success in patience and privation, labor and hope.
“What can one do to learn your secret?” asked the girl wistfully, for
there was nothing in the man’s manner to disturb her self-forgetful
mood, but much to foster it, because to the solitary worker this
confiding guest was as welcome as the doves who often hopped in at his
window.
“Work and wait, and meantime feed heart, soul, and imagination with the
best food one can get,” he answered slowly, finding it impossible to
give a receipt for genius.
“I can work and wait a long time to gain my end; but I don’t know where
to find the food you speak of?” she answered, looking at him like a
hungry child.
“I wish I could tell you, but each needs different fare, and each must
look for it in different places.”
The kindly tone and the sympathizing look, as well as the lines in his
forehead, and a few gray hairs among the brown, gave Psyche courage to
say more.
“I love beauty so much that I not only want to possess it myself, but to
gain the power of seeing it in all things, and the art of reproducing it
with truth. I have tried very hard to do it, but something is wanting;
and in spite of my intense desire I never get on.”
As she spoke the girl’s eyes filled and fell in spite of herself, and
turning a little with sudden shamefacedness she saw, lying on the table
beside her among other scraps in manuscript and print, the well-known
lines,—
“I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;
I woke, and found that life was duty.
Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
And thou shalt find thy dream to be
A noonday light and truth to thee.”
She knew them at a glance, had read them many times, but now they came
home to her with sudden force, and, seeing that his eye had followed
hers, she said in her impulsive fashion,—
“Is doing one’s duty a good way to feed heart, soul, and imagination?”
As if he had caught a glimpse of what was going on in her mind, Paul
answered emphatically,—
“Excellent; for if one is good, one is happy, and if happy, one can work
well. Moulding character is the highest sort of sculpture, and all of us
should learn that art before we touch clay or marble.”
He spoke with the energy of a man who believed what he said, and did his
best to be worthy of the rich gift bestowed upon him. The sight of her
violets in a glass of water, and Giovanni staring at her with round
eyes, suddenly recalled Psyche to a sense of the proprieties which she
had been innocently outraging for the last ten minutes. A sort of panic
seized her; she blushed deeply, retreated precipitately to the door, and
vanished, murmuring thanks and apologies as she went.
“Did you find him? I thought you had forgotten,” said Miss Dickenson,
now hard at work.
“Yes, I found him. No, I shall not forget,” returned Psyche, thinking of
Gage, not Giovanni.
She stood before her work eying it intently for several minutes; then,
with an expression of great contempt for the whole thing, she suddenly
tilted her cherished Venus on to the floor, gave the classical face a
finishing crunch, and put on her hat in a decisive manner, saying
briefly to the dismayed damsels,—
“Good-by, girls; I shan’t come any more, for I’m going to work at home
hereafter.”
* * * * *