THE prospect of pursuing artistic studies at home was not brilliant, as
one may imagine when I mention that Psyche’s father was a painfully
prosaic man, wrapt in flannel, so to speak; for his woollen mills left
him no time for anything but sleep, food, and newspapers. Mrs. Dean was
one of those exasperating women who pervade their mansions like a
domestic steam-engine one week and take to their sofas the next,
absorbed by fidgets and foot-stoves, shawls and lamentations. There were
three riotous and robust young brothers, whom it is unnecessary to
describe except by stating that they were _boys_ in the broadest sense
of that delightful word. There was a feeble little sister, whose
patient, suffering face demanded constant love and care to mitigate the
weariness of a life of pain. And last, but not least by any means, there
were two Irish ladies, who, with the best intentions imaginable,
produced a universal state of topsy-turviness when left to themselves
for a moment.
But being very much in earnest about doing her duty, not because it
_was_ her duty, but as a means toward an end, Psyche fell to work with a
will, hoping to serve both masters at once. So she might have done,
perhaps, if flesh and blood had been as plastic as clay, but the live
models were so exacting in their demands upon her time and strength,
that the poor statues went to the wall. Sculpture and sewing, calls and
crayons, Ruskin and receipt-books, didn’t work well together, and poor
Psyche found duties and desires desperately antagonistic. Take a day as
a sample.
“The washing and ironing are well over, thank goodness, mother quiet,
the boys out of the way, and May comfortable, so I’ll indulge myself in
a blissful day after my own heart,” Psyche said, as she shut herself
into her little studio, and prepared to enjoy a few hours of hard study
and happy day-dreams.
With a book on her lap, and her own round white arm going through all
manner of queer evolutions, she was placidly repeating, “Deltoides,
Biceps, Triceps, Pronator, Supinator, Palmanis, Flexor carpi ulnaris—”
“Here’s Flexis what-you-call-ums for you,” interrupted a voice, which
began in a shrill falsetto and ended in a gruff bass, as a flushed,
dusty, long-legged boy burst in, with a bleeding hand obligingly
extended for inspection.
“Mercy on us, Harry! what have you done to yourself now? Split your
fingers with a cricket-ball again?” cried Psyche, as her arms went up
and her book went down.
“I just thrashed one of the fellows because he got mad and said father
was going to fail.”
“O Harry, is he?”
“Of course he isn’t! It’s hard times for every one, but father will pull
through all right. No use to try and explain it all; girls can’t
understand business; so you just tie me up, and don’t worry,” was the
characteristic reply of the young man, who, being three years her
junior, of course treated the weaker vessel with lordly condescension.
“What a dreadful wound! I hope nothing is broken, for I haven’t studied
the hand much yet, and may do mischief doing it up,” said Psyche,
examining the great grimy paw with tender solicitude.
“Much good your biceps, and deltoids, and things do you, if you can’t
right up a little cut like that,” squeaked the ungrateful hero.
“I’m not going to be a surgeon, thank heaven; I intend to make perfect
hands and arms, not mend damaged ones,” retorted Psyche, in a dignified
tone, somewhat marred by a great piece of court-plaster on her tongue.
“I should say a surgeon could improve _that_ perfect thing, if he didn’t
die a-laughing before he began,” growled Harry, pointing with a scornful
grin at a clay arm humpy with muscles, all carefully developed in the
wrong places.
“Don’t sneer Hal, for you don’t know anything about it. Wait a few years
and see if you’re not proud of me.”
“Sculp away and do something, then I’ll hurrah for your mud-pies like a
good one;” with which cheering promise the youth departed, having
effectually disturbed his sister’s peaceful mood.
Anxious thoughts of her father rendered “biceps, deltoids, and things”
uninteresting, and hoping to compose her mind, she took up The Old
Painters and went on with the story of Claude Lorraine. She had just
reached the tender scene where,—
“Calista gazed with enthusiasm, while she looked like a being of heaven
rather than earth. ‘My friend,’ she cried, ‘I read in thy picture thy
immortality!’ As she spoke, her head sunk upon his bosom, and it was
several moments before Claude perceived that he supported a lifeless
form.”
“How sweet!” said Psyche, with a romantic sigh.
“Faith, and swate it is, thin!” echoed Katy, whose red head had just
appeared round the half opened door. “It’s gingy-bread I’m making the
day, miss, and will I be puttin’ purlash or sallyrathis into it, if ye
plase?”
“Purlash, by all means,” returned the girl, keeping her countenance,
fearing to enrage Katy by a laugh; for the angry passions of the
red-haired one rose more quickly than her bread. As she departed with
alacrity to add a spoonful of starch and a pinch of whiting to her cake,
Psyche, feeling better for her story and her smile, put on her bib and
paper cap and fell to work on the deformed arm. An hour of bliss, then
came a ring at the door-bell, followed by Biddy to announce callers, and
add that as “the mistress was in her bed, miss must go and take care of
’em.” Whereat “miss” cast down her tools in despair, threw her cap one
way, her bib another, and went in to her guests with anything but a
rapturous welcome.
Dinner being accomplished after much rushing up and down stairs with
trays and messages for Mrs. Dean, Psyche fled again to her studio,
ordering no one to approach under pain of a scolding. All went well
till, going in search of something, she found her little sister sitting
on the floor with her cheek against the studio door.
“I didn’t mean to be naughty, Sy, but mother is asleep, and the boys all
gone, so I just came to be near you; it’s so lonely everywhere,” she
said, apologetically, as she lifted up the heavy head that always ached.
“The boys are very thoughtless. Come in and stay with me; you are such a
mouse you won’t disturb me. Wouldn’t you like to play be a model and let
me draw your arm, and tell you all about the nice little bones and
muscles?” asked Psyche, who had the fever very strong upon her just
then.
May didn’t look as if the proposed amusement overwhelmed her with
delight, but meekly consented to be perched upon a high stool with one
arm propped up by a dropsical plaster cherub, while Psyche drew busily,
feeling that duty and pleasure were being delightfully combined.
“Can’t you hold your arm still, child? It shakes so I can’t get it
right,” she said, rather impatiently.
“No, it will tremble ’cause it’s weak. I try hard, Sy, but there doesn’t
seem to be much strongness in me lately.”
“That’s better; keep it so a few minutes and I’ll be done,” cried the
artist, forgetting that a few minutes may seem ages.
“My arm is so thin you can see the bunches nicely,—can’t you?”
“Yes, dear.”
Psyche glanced up at the wasted limb, and when she drew again there was
a blur before her eyes for a minute.
“I wish I was as fat as this white boy; but I get thinner every day
somehow, and pretty soon there won’t be any of me left but my little
bones,” said the child, looking at the winged cherub with sorrowful
envy.
“Don’t, my darling; don’t say that,” cried Psyche, dropping her work
with a sudden pang at her heart. “I’m a sinful, selfish girl to keep you
here! you’re weak for want of air; come out and see the chickens, and
pick dandelions, and have a good romp with the boys.”
The weak arms were strong enough to clasp Psyche’s neck, and the tired
face brightened beautifully as the child exclaimed, with grateful
delight,—
“Oh, I’d like it very much! I wanted to go dreadfully; but everybody is
so busy all the time. I don’t want to play, Sy; but just to lie on the
grass with my head in your lap while you tell stories and draw me pretty
things as you used to.”
The studio was deserted all that afternoon, for Psyche sat in the
orchard drawing squirrels on the wall, pert robins hopping by,
buttercups and mosses, elves and angels; while May lay contentedly
enjoying sun and air, sisterly care, and the “pretty things” she loved
so well. Psyche did not find the task a hard one; for this time her
heart was in it, and if she needed any reward she surely found it; for
the little face on her knee lost its weary look, and the peace and
beauty of nature soothed her own troubled spirit, cheered her heart, and
did her more good than hours of solitary study.
Finding, much to her own surprise, that her fancy was teeming with
lovely conceits, she did hope for a quiet evening. But mother wanted a
bit of gossip, father must have his papers read to him, the boys had
lessons and rips and grievances to be attended to, May’s lullaby could
not be forgotten, and the maids had to be looked after, lest burly
“cousins” should be hidden in the boiler, or lucifer matches among the
shavings. So Psyche’s day ended, leaving her very tired, rather
discouraged, and almost heart-sick with the shadow of a coming sorrow.
All summer she did her best, but accomplished very little, as she
thought; yet this was the teaching she most needed, and in time she came
to see it. In the autumn May died, whispering, with her arms about her
sister’s neck,—
“You make me so happy, Sy, I wouldn’t mind the pain if I could stay a
little longer. But if I can’t, good-by, dear, good-by.”
Her last look and word and kiss were all for Psyche, who felt then with
grateful tears that her summer had not been wasted; for the smile upon
the little dead face was more to her than any marble perfection her
hands could have carved.
In the solemn pause which death makes in every family, Psyche said, with
the sweet self-forgetfulness of a strong yet tender nature,—
“I must not think of myself, but try to comfort them;” and with this
resolution she gave herself heart and soul to duty, never thinking of
reward.
A busy, anxious, humdrum winter, for, as Harry said, “it was hard times
for every one.” Mr. Dean grew gray with the weight of business cares
about which he never spoke; Mrs. Dean, laboring under the delusion that
an invalid was a necessary appendage to the family, installed herself in
the place the child’s death left vacant, and the boys needed much
comforting, for the poor lads never knew how much they loved “the baby”
till the little chair stood empty. All turned to Sy for help and
consolation, and her strength seemed to increase with the demand upon
it. Patience and cheerfulness, courage and skill came at her call like
good fairies who had bided their time. Housekeeping ceased to be
hateful, and peace reigned in parlor and kitchen while Mrs. Dean,
shrouded in shawls, read Hahnemann’s Lesser Writings on her sofa. Mr.
Dean sometimes forgot his mills when a bright face came to meet him, a
gentle hand smoothed the wrinkles out of his anxious forehead, and a
daughterly heart sympathized with all his cares. The boys found home
very pleasant with Sy always there ready to “lend a hand,” whether it
was to make fancy ties, help conjugate “a confounded verb,” pull candy,
or sing sweetly in the twilight when all thought of little May and grew
quiet.
The studio door remained locked till her brothers begged Psyche to open
it and make a bust of the child. A flush of joy swept over her face at
the request, and her patient eyes grew bright and eager, as a thirsty
traveller’s might at the sight or sound of water. Then it faded as she
shook her head, saying with a regretful sigh, “I’m afraid I’ve lost the
little skill I ever had.”
But she tried, and with great wonder and delight discovered that she
could work as she had never done before. She thought the newly found
power lay in her longing to see the little face again; for it grew like
magic under her loving hands, while every tender memory, sweet thought,
and devout hope she had ever cherished, seemed to lend their aid. But
when it was done and welcomed with tears and smiles, and praise more
precious than any the world could give, then Psyche said within herself,
like one who saw light at last,—
“He was right; doing one’s duty _is_ the way to feed heart, soul, and
imagination; for if one is good, one is happy, and if happy, one can
work well.”