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expand2003 (1)
1Author:  Willis Nathaniel Parker 1806-1867Add
 Title:  Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was getting toward “the small hours” of a summer's night in 1830, when Paul Fane tapped at the closely shuttered window of the house which had always been his home. The family prayers, invariable at nine o'clock, were long over, and at the front door, inexorably locked at ten, the truant son now stood—excluded for the night by the stern father whose hand had turned the key, but knowing well that sleepless eyes were watching for him, and lips whose good-night blessing and kiss would await him, even till morning. That little twitch at the lock of hair over my left temple tells me that you are here, just as certainly as when you crept behind me at my easel at home, and by that bell-pull to my abstracted brain, informed me that I was to come out of my picture and attend to you. Spirits can cross oceans and pull hair—I here record my well-founded belief—and you are here, up three flights of stairs, in my private and unapproachable Parisian den waiting to have a talk with your boy. Kiss, dear mother, and begin. By looking at the bottom of the fourth page you will see that I still write to you “au naturel” as our French grammar used to say, and I beg to inform you, more particularly, that I am, as yet, neither Lady Cummit Strong, nor Countess Ebenhog, but simply your old friend 'Phia Firkin, not much aggravated nor diminished. The above titles, however, being my present imminent catastrophes, I name them at once, to ease your anxious mind. Not quite sure that I have anything to write to you about —or rather, seeing very distinctly that what may seem important for me to write may not be important enough for you to take the trouble to read—I still venture to intrude upon you, as you see. It will not be the first time that your good nature has been called upon in my behalf, and, trusting to your having acquired the habit, I must pray you to pardon me once more! I dare say you feel quite like a widow, not to have heard from your faithful 'Phia for so long (now three weeks since I wrote to you, I believe), but the neglect is not because I forget you. I think of you, on the contrary, oftener than ever, and because I have more to tell—which, you know, makes it so much harder to begin. Why, I live so much more than I used to, Kitty, that I feel like half a dozen of what I used to be! In fact, multiplied as my existence is, at present, I should not feel justified in marrying any one man. Don't you think there is danger of outgrowing the “allowance for one”—becoming, in one's own self, a sort of seraglio, as it were? At any rate, my mind must be more clear as to what constitutes a “single woman,” before I give the whole of myself to a single husband! But it is curious how the kind of love that one means to settle down upon, after all (when our little innocent flirtations are over, you know, Kitty!), just spoils a man for painting one's portrait! I went to sit to my devoted Blivins, expecting that he would, at least, make me as good-looking as I am—(especially as, by the way, he talked to me, I was sure he thought me very beautiful), and what does he do but begin his husbanding of me at once— painting me in a helmet and tunic as a Goddess of Liberty, that is to say—and a more boxed up woman you never saw, out of a coffin. There was nothing to be seen of me but the face! Now you know, Kitty (for we have compared notes on the subject), that what little beauty I have is not exactly there. It has been my greatest comfort, in visiting these foreign galleries and studios, to see that the painters of all ages (ugly “old masters” as well as handsome young masters) dwell particularly on just where I am perfect. There is not a Virgin Mary, nor a Saint Cecilia, nor even a Lucretia (and this last is a pattern of modesty, you know), that is not painted, as you may say, with a figure. And mamma says it is only because there are so many exposed bosoms (fifty, at least, in every gallery) that people walk round and look at them so unconcernedly. So, don't you see, that if it were only the fashion for us all to show our figures, it would be proper enough! In the East, it is improper for a woman to show her mouth; and I dare say that, if there were only one woman in the world that showed her elbow, it would be considered very immoral. Papa has commissioned me to act as his amanuensis, his only hand being disabled by the neuralgic trouble to which he is liable, and I obey—only with a little uncommissioned variation of my own. * * * Your accounts of gaieties and intimacies are very amusing, and, to us at this distance at least, they seem to be throwing very attractive spells upon you as you pass. And this is to be rejoiced in. The world should be thanked for smiling upon us, if it will. But, in these glittering eddies along the shore, we should not forget the main current of our life, and you particularly, may as well be reminded, perhaps, that your arrival at the far outlet of ambition and culture is to be by a headway slow and unnoticed. You have but the force of the natural channel to trust for guidance and progress, and are just so often hindered and thrown into the slack-water of inaction, as you are made giddy by any side-whirls, or excitements such as are objectless and temporary. * * * The path of Art which, in glowing and sanguine moments, I mark out for myself as peculiarly my own, becomes very indistinct under depression and discouragement. It is not merely that I cannot handle my pencil, when out of spirits, but the handling that I have already done, with a feeling of success and a belief in its originality, loses all force and beauty to my eye. If I were working entirely by myself, I should, half the time, neither be the same person, nor believe Art to be the same thing. Please receive me in my night-cap and slippers, for I was all undressed to go to bed, when I found I must first go to Alabama— so full of thoughts of you, that is to say, that there would be no sleeping till I had written you a letter. It is not late, either. You are very certain to be wide awake, yourself. Very likely enjoying your second-hand sunset—the identical sun that set, for us here in Florence, three or four hours ago! Of course you love it more because it has lately seen me; though, when Mr. Fane happened to mention Europe's getting the first call from the sun and moon, Pa was quite disgusted with the whole affair. He said the Declaration of Independence ought to have arranged that our glorious Republic should have the “first cut” of daylight and everything else. My dear Friend,—I am the first to write, and for this very new forwardness in myself, my pride naturally looks about for excuses. The best I can find within reach is, that I am the idler of the two. You would have written first to me (I will believe, at least, till this letter has gone)! but for devotion to your pencils and easel. While you are at your studio, toiling after some elusive shadow of beauty, I am alone in my room, weary of sight-seeing, and with a day upon my hands. Your letter to “Mr. Evenden” is herewith enclosed, and you will be surprised to hear that there is no such person. The artist who painted your portrait assumed the name (for an object which shall be more fully explained to you hereafter), and it was in the course of maintaining his incognito, that he thoughtlessly admitted your supposition as to the freedom of his hand. He thus led you into an error for which he hopes so to apologize as to be forgiven. He is not at liberty, at present, to form any matrimonial engagement; but he hopes that you will still allow him to retain the double flattery which your letter contains—precious flattery both for the artist and the man—and to burn incense to friendship, on an altar which, under other circumstances, might have been sacred to love. The explanation of the reasons for the incognito, is only deferred till the dénoûment of a little drama of which it is just now a part. Without dating my letter precisely from Spirit-land, I may almost claim a hearing from thence—so nearly arrived thither that I begin to see with the unworldly eyes of that better existence, and finding something to look back and say, which you will first read probably, when I am already there. It will be written with the trembling hand of departure, and at broken moments, stolen from the watchfulness of the dear one of whom I wish to speak; but I trust to find strength and opportunity, as I go on, and to trace, with this last use of pen and ink, words which your kindly eyes may manage to decipher. If I mistake not, there will be an intuition at your heart that will even anticipate my meaning; and, pray believe that, if it be possible to return to earth through the records of thoughts that go with us to heaven, these ill-traced words will speak to you also with a spirit-presence. Mrs. Cleverly will remain for some time in Florence; and, for you to have Mary Evenden there, in the midst of objects and associations of such common interest to you both, will, of course, be delightful. The Arts—always a sufficient feast to share even at home—will be like an intoxication of sympathy where their charms are perfected by the world's masterpieces. But, my dear Paul, a thought here takes shape, which has been to me, for some time, “a shadow on the wall.” More or less haunted by it for years, and dismissing it constantly as a subject that would be more manageable by-and-by, I must express it now as a new anxiety—though very possibly, in your mind it is a familiar matter, long ago recognized and disposed of. The more needless my nervousness shall thus prove to have been, however, the better pleased I shall be. I presume it will somewhat startle you to see the signature to this letter—(“Winifred Tetherly,” if, before arriving at the bottom of the page where I am to write it, I do not first awake from a dream)—though, for what is but a prompt following of your advice, you have no very reasonable ground for surprise. To help a lady to a husband you will think, is as easy as to pass the salt— so easy, and for one who thought herself the most difficult woman in the world, that I am not yet fully persuaded of it myself. But I must at least, tell you the story of an event which (according to my present strong impression and belief), has prevented me from keeping my appointment with you as Miss Ashly. When I once before had occasion to trouble you with a letter, it was (if you remember) to explain my waiving of a happiness to which I had properly no claim—a place at court, of which your daughter generously supposed that I might do the honors. A false position of a still more delicate nature is my embarrassment, at present—a much higher happiness, and accorded to me also by the noble generosity of your family—and to waive this also, as unquestionably and entirely, would, perhaps, be my simple duty in now writing to you. But there is a presumptuous qualification of this second disclaimer, upon which I believe I must venture, though I do so by placing myself and the consequences entirely in your hands. Your letter was so in accordance with what had already passed between us, that I was not surprised at its tone and contents. There was a startling unlikeness, in it, to the common language of lovers, as well as to the common usage of the world, but we were prepared for its delicate generosity, by knowing the standard up to which you live. Allow me to begin by thanking you, frankly, and with all my heart, for the fresh proof of it which touches me so nearly—adding, however (though the explanation is scarce necessary), that, if it were a question of my own happiness only, I should not accept so unreservedly this sacrifice of yourself. For my daughter, I must be even less magnanimous toward a friend than were else possible. I am sure you will understand how much harder this proof of affection is than the other extreme. I date once more from Paris, though, in your last, you say I should have signed myself, “your affectionate snail,” so slow am I at crawling towards home. Please have some hopes, of me, however, as I am, at present, a bivalve, and, of course, with new laws of motion—flattened into this new character (I liked to have forgot to tell you) on the first of May, by the Rev. Mr. Sprinkle, of the English chapel—my beloved Wabash being the other shell, and connubial bliss, of course, the mutual oyster between us. The sadness at the news of your letter, is so struggling for the present with my resentment at your not coming to say adieu to us, that I am doubting whether this will turn out a scolding or a farewell. I can scarce see to write, for the tears that are in such a silly hurry to forgive you—but how dreadfully unkind and hard-hearted of you, to think of going without a word of good-bye! Is it quite safe, do you think, to commit yourself to the retributive ocean with a sin of such enormity on your shoulders? You are thinking of me to-day, I know, as half-way across the water. I was to have sailed a fortnight ago (as I wrote you), and should have been happy indeed to do so, but for Mrs. Cleverly's delays at Paris. She and Mary are to come with me, and the good lady's milliners and dress-makers, I suppose, have been less prompt than her kindnesses. Boston is to be kept astonished for a year or two, of course, with the fashions she brings home—the tribute to the magnificent great heart that beats under her “latest fashion,” being as little thought of by herself, as it is by the goodness-blind world she cares only to dazzle.
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