 | Twice-told tales |  |
THE PROPHETIC PICTURES.
THE PROPHETIC PICTURES.[1]
`But this painter!' cried Walter Ludlow, with animation.
`He not only excels in his peculiar art, but
possesses vast acquirements in all other learning and
science. He talks Hebrew with Doctor Mather, and
gives lectures in anatomy to Doctor Boylston. In a
word, he will meet the best instructed man among us,
on his own ground. Moreover, he is a polished gentleman—a
citizen of the world—yes, a true cosmopolite;
for he will speak like a native of each clime and country
on the globe, except our own forests, whither he is
now going. Nor is all this what I most admire in
him.'
`Indeed!' said Elinor, who had listened with a
woman's interest to the description of such a man.
`Yet this is admirable enough.'
`Surely it is,' replied her lover, `but far less so than
his natural gift of adapting himself to every variety of
character, insomuch that all men—and women too,
Elinor—shall find a mirror of themselves in this wonderful
painter. But the greatest wonder is yet to be
told.'
`Nay, if he have more wonderful attributes than
these,' said Elinor, laughing, `Boston is a perilous
abode for the poor gentleman. Are you telling me of
a painter, or a wizard?'
`In truth,' answered he, `that question might be
asked much more seriously than you suppose. They
say that he paints not merely a man's features, but his
mind and heart. He catches the secret sentiments
and passions, and throws them upon the canvas, like
sunshine—or perhaps, in the portraits of dark-souled
men, like a gleam of infernal fire. It is an awful gift,'
added Walter, lowering his voice from its tone of enthusiasm.
`I shall be almost afraid to sit to him.'
`Walter, are you in earnest?' exclaimed Elinor.
`For Heaven's sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him
paint the look which you now wear,' said her lover,
smiling, though rather perplexed. `There: it is passing
away now, but when you spoke, you seemed frightened
to death, and very sad besides. What were you
thinking of?'
`Nothing; nothing,' answered Elinor, hastily. `You
paint my face with your own fantasies. Well, come for
me tomorrow, and we will visit this wonderful artist.'
But when the young man had departed, it cannot be
denied that a remarkable expression was again visible
on the fair and youthful face of his mistress. It was a
sad and anxious look, little in accordance with what
should have been the feelings of a maiden on the eve
of wedlock. Yet Walter Ludlow was the chosen of
her heart.
`A look!' said Elinor to herself. `No wonder that
it startled him, if it expressed what I sometimes feel.
I know, by my own experience, how frightful a look
may be. But it was all fancy, I thought nothing of it
at the time—I have seen nothing of it since—I did
but dream it.'
And she busied herself about the embroidery of a
ruff, in which she meant that her portrait should be
taken.
The painter, of whom they had been speaking, was
not one of those native artists, who at a later period
than this, borrowed their colors from the Indians, and
manufactured their pencils of the furs of wild beasts.
Perhaps, if he could have revoked his life and pre-arranged
his destiny, he might have chosen to belong to
that school without a master, in the hope of being at
least original, since there were no works of art to
imitate, nor rules to follow. But he had been born
and educated in Europe. People said, that he had
studied the grandeur or beauty of conception, and every
touch of the master-hand, in all the most famous pictures,
in cabinets and galleries, and on the walls of
mind to learn. Art could add nothing to its lessons,
but Nature might. He had therefore visited a world,
whither none of his professional brethren had preceded
him, to feast his eyes on visible images, that were noble
and picturesque, yet had never been transferred to
canvas. America was too poor to afford other temptations
to an artist of eminence, though many of the
colonial gentry, on the painter's arrival, had expressed
a wish to transmit their lineaments to posterity, by
means of his skill. Whenever such proposals were
made, he fixed his piercing eyes on the applicant, and
seemed to look him through and through. If he
beheld a sleek and comfortable visage, though there
were a gold-laced coat to adorn the picture, and golden
guineas to pay for it, he civilly rejected the task and
the reward. But if the face were the index of anything
uncommon, in thought, sentiment, or experience;
or if he met a beggar in the street, with a white beard
and a furrowed brow; or if, sometimes a child happened
to look up and smile: he would exhaust all the
art on them, that he denied to wealth.
Pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the
painter became an object of general curiosity. If few
or none could appreciate the technical merit of his
productions, yet there were points, in regard to which
the opinion of the crowd was as valuable as the refined
judgment of the amateur. He watched the effect that
each picture produced on such untutored beholders,
as soon have thought of instructing Nature herself, as
him who seemed to rival her. Their admiration, it
must be owned, was tinctured with the prejudices of
the age and country. Some deemed it an offence
against the Mosaic law, and even a presumptuous mockery
of the Creator, to bring into existence such lively
images of his creatures. Others, frightened at the art
which could raise phantoms at will, and keep the form
of the dead among the living, were inclined to consider
the painter as a magician, or perhaps the famous Black
Man of old witch-times, plotting mischief in a new
guise. These foolish fancies were more than half
believed, among the mob. Even in superior circles,
his character was invested with a vague awe, partly
rising like smoke-wreaths from the popular superstitions,
but chiefly caused by the varied knowledge and
talents which he made subservient to his profession.
Being on the eve of marriage, Walter Ludlow and
Elinor were eager to obtain their portraits, as the
first of what, they doubtless hoped, would be a long
series of family pictures. The day after the conversation
above recorded, they visited the painter's rooms.
A servant ushered them into an apartment, where,
though the artist himself was not visible, there were
personages, whom they could hardly forbear greeting
with reverence. They knew, indeed, that the whole
assembly were but pictures, yet felt it impossible to
separate the idea of life and intellect from such striking
them, either as distinguished characters of the day, or
their private acquaintances. There was Governor
Burnett, looking as if he had just received an undutiful
communication from the House of Representatives, and
were inditing a most sharp response. Mr. Cooke hung
beside the ruler whom he opposed, sturdy, and somewhat
puritanical, as befitted a popular leader. The
ancient lady of Sir William Phipps eyed them from
the wall, in ruff and farthingale, an imperious old
dame, not unsuspected of witchcraft. John Winslow,
then a very young man, wore the expression of warlike
enterprise, which long afterwards made him a distinguished
general. Their personal friends were recognised
at a glance. In most of the pictures, the whole
mind and character were brought out on the countenance,
and concentrated into a single look, so that, to
speak paradoxically, the originals hardly resembled
themselves so strikingly as the portraits did.
Among these modern worthies, there were two old
bearded Saints, who had almost vanished into the
darkening canvas. There was also a pale, but unfaded
Madonna, who had perhaps been worshiped in
Rome, and now regarded the lovers with such a mild
and holy look, that they longed to worship too.
`How singular a thought,' observed Walter Ludlow,
`that this beautiful face has been beautiful for above
two hundred years! Oh, if all beauty would endure so
well! Do you not envy her, Elinor?'
`If Earth were Heaven, I might,' she replied. `But
where all things fade, how miserable to be the one that
could not fade!'
`This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly
scowl, saint though he be,' continued Walter. `He
troubles me. But the Virgin looks kindly at us.'
`Yes; but very sorrowfully, methinks,' said Elinor.
The easel stood beneath these three old pictures,
sustaining one that had been recently commenced.
After a little inspection, they began to recognise the
features of their own minister, the Rev. Dr. Colman,
growing into shape and life, as it were, out of a cloud.
`Kind old man!' exclaimed Elinor. `He gazes at
me, as if he were about to utter a word of paternal
advice.'
`And at me,' said Walter, `as if he were about to
shake his head and rebuke me, for some suspected
iniquity. But so does the original. I shall never feel
quite comfortable under his eye, till we stand before
him to be married.'
They now heard a footstep on the floor, and turning,
beheld the painter, who had been some moments in
the room, and had listened to a few of their remarks.
He was a middle-aged man, with a countenance well
worthy of his own pencil. Indeed, by the picturesque,
though careless arrangement of his rich dress, and,
perhaps, because his soul dwelt always among painted
shapes, he looked somewhat like a portrait himself.
His visiters were sensible of a kindred between the
had stept from the canvas to salute them.
Walter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the
painter, explained the object of their visit. While he
spoke, a sunbeam was falling athwart his figure and
Elinor's, with so happy an effect, that they also seemed
living pictures of youth and beauty, gladdened by
bright fortune. The artist was evidently struck.
`My easel is occupied for several ensuing days, and
my stay in Boston must be brief,' said he, thoughtfully;
then after an observant glance, he added: `but
your wishes shall be gratified, though I disappoint the
chief Justice and Madame Oliver. I must not lose
this opportunity, for the sake of painting a few ells of
broadcloth and brocade.'
The painter expressed a desire to introduce both
their portraits into one picture, and represent them
engaged in some appropriate action. This plan would
have delighted the lovers, but was necessarily rejected,
because so large a space of canvas would have been
unfit for the room which it was intended to decorate.
Two half-length portraits were therefore fixed upon.
After they had taken leave, Walter Ludlow asked
Elinor, with a smile, whether she knew what an influence
over their fates the painter was about to acquire.
`The old women of Boston affirm,' continued he,
`that after he has once got possession of a person's
face and figure, he may paint him in any act or situation
whatever—and the picture will be prophetic. Do
you believe it?'
`Not quite,' said Elinor, smiling. `Yet if he has
such magic, there is something so gentle in his manner,
that I am sure he will use it well.'
It was the painter's choice to proceed with both the
portraits at the same time, assigning as a reason, in the
mystical language which he sometimes used, that the
faces threw light upon each other. Accordingly, he
gave now a touch to Walter, and now to Elinor, and
the features of one and the other began to start forth
so vividly, that it appeared as if his triumphant art
would actually disengage them from the canvas. Amid
the rich light and deep shade, they beheld their phantom
selves. But, though the likeness promised to be perfect,
they were not quite satisfied with the expression;
it seemed more vague than in most of the painter's
works. He, however, was satisfied with the prospect
of success, and being much interested in the lovers,
employed his leisure moments, unknown to them, in
making a crayon sketch of their two figures. During
their sittings, he engaged them in conversation, and
kindled up their faces with characteristic traits, which,
though continually varying, it was his purpose to
combine and fix. At length he announced, that at
their next visit, both the portraits would be ready for
delivery.
`If my pencil will but be true to my conception, in
the few last touches which I meditate,' observed he,
`these two pictures will be my very best performances.
Seldom, indeed, has an artist such subjects.'
While speaking, he still bent his penetrative eye
upon them, nor withdrew it till they had reached the
bottom of the stairs.
Nothing, in the whole circle of human vanities,
takes stronger hold of the imagination, than this affair
of having a portrait painted. Yet why should it be so?
The looking-glass, the polished globes of the andirons,
the mirror-like water, and all other reflecting surfaces,
continually present us with portraits, or rather ghosts
of ourselves, which we glance at, and straightway
forget them. But we forget them, only because they
vanish. It is the idea of duration—of earthly immortality—that
gives such a mysterious interest to our
own portraits. Walter and Elinor were not insensible
to this feeling, and hastened to the painter's rooms,
punctually at the appointed hour, to meet those pictured
shapes, which were to be their representatives with
posterity. The sunshine flashed after them into the
apartment, but left it somewhat gloomy, as they closed
the door.
Their eyes were immediately attracted to their
portraits, which rested against the farthest wall of the
room. At the first glance, through the dim light and
the distance, seeing themselves in precisely their natural
attitudes, and with all the air that they recognised
so well, they uttered a simultaneous exclamation of
delight.
`There we stand,' cried Walter, enthusiastically,
`fixed in sunshine for ever! No dark passions can gather
on our faces!'
`No,' said Elinor, more calmly; `no dreary change
can sadden us.'
This was said while they were approaching, and had
yet gained only an imperfect view of the pictures. The
painter, after saluting them, busied himself at a table
in completing a crayon sketch, leaving his visiters to
form their own judgment as to his perfected labors.
At intervals, he sent a glance from beneath his deep
eyebrows, watching their countenances in profile, with
his pencil suspended over the sketch. They had now
stood some moments, each in front of the other's
picture, contemplating it with entranced attention,
but without uttering a word. At length, Walter stepped
forward—then back—viewing Elinor's portrait in
various lights, and finally spoke.
`Is there not a change?' said he, in a doubtful and
meditative tone. `Yes; the perception of it grows
more vivid, the longer I look. It is certainly the
same picture that I saw yesterday; the dress—the
features—all are the same; and yet something is
altered.'
`Is then the picture less like than it was yesterday?'
inquired the painter, now drawing near, with irrepressible
interest.
`The features are perfect Elinor,' answered Walter;
`and, at the first glance, the expression seemed also
her's. But, I could fancy that the portrait has changed
countenance, while I have been looking at it. The
eyes are fixed on mine with a strangely sad and anxious
Elinor?'
`Compare the living face with the pictured one,'
said the painter.
Walter glanced sidelong at his mistress, and started.
Motionless and absorbed—fascinated, as it were—in
contemplation of Walter's portrait, Elinor's face had
assumed precisely the expression of which he had just
been complaining. Had she practised for whole hours
before a mirror, she could not have caught the look so
successfully. Had the picture itself been a mirror, it
could not have thrown back her present aspect, with
stronger and more melancholy truth. She appeared
quite unconscious of the dialogue between the artist
and her lover.
`Elinor,' exclaimed Walter, in amazement, `what
change has come over you?'
She did not hear him, nor desist from her fixed gaze,
till he seized her hand, and thus attracted her notice;
then, with a sudden tremor, she looked from the picture
to the face of the original.
`Do you see no change in your portrait?' asked
she.
`In mine?—None!' replied Walter, examining it.
`But let me see! Yes; there is a slight change—an
improvement, I think, in the picture, though none in
the likeness. It has a livelier expression than yesterday,
as if some bright thought were flashing from the
eyes, and about to be uttered from the lips. Now that
I have caught the look, it becomes very decided.'
While he was intent on these observations, Elinor
turned to the painter. She regarded him with grief
and awe, and felt that he repaid her with sympathy
and commiseration, though wherefore, she could but
vaguely guess.
`That look!' whispered she, and shuddered. `How
came it there?'
`Madam,' said the painter, sadly, taking her hand,
and leading her apart, `in both these pictures, I have
painted what I saw. The artist—the true artist—must
look beneath the exterior. It is his gift—his proudest,
but often a melancholy one—to see the inmost soul,
and, by a power indefinable even to himself, to make
it glow or darken upon the canvas, in glances that
express the thought and sentiment of years. Would
that I might convince myself of error in the present
instance!'
They had now approached the table, on which were
heads in chalk, hands almost as expressive as ordinary
faces, ivied church-towers, thatched cottages, old thunder-stricken
trees, oriental and antique costume, and all
such picturesque vagaries of an artist's idle moments.
Turning them over, with seeming carelessness, a
crayon sketch of two figures was disclosed.
`If I have failed,' continued he;—`if your heart
does not see itself reflected in your own portrait—if
you have no secret cause to trust my delineation of
the other—it is not yet too late to alter them. I might
influence the event?'
He directed her notice to the sketch. A thrill ran
through Elinor's frame; a shriek was upon her lips;
but she stifled it, with the self-command that becomes
habitual to all, who hide thoughts of fear and anguish
within their bosoms. Turning from the table, she
perceived that Walter had advanced near enough to
have seen the sketch, though she could not determine
whether it had caught his eye.
`We will not have the pictures altered,' said she,
hastily. `If mine is sad, I shall but look the gayer for
the contrast.'
`Be it so,' answered the painter, bowing. `May
your griefs be such fanciful ones, that only your picture
may mourn for them! For your joys—may they
be true and deep, and paint themselves upon this
lovely face, till it quite belie my art!'
After the marriage of Walter and Elinor, the pictures
formed the two most splendid ornaments of their
abode. They hung side by side, separated by a narrow
panel, appearing to eye each other constantly, yet
always returning the gaze of the spectator. Travelled
gentlemen, who professed a knowledge of such subjects,
reckoned these among the most admirable specimens
of modern portraiture; while common observers
compared them with the originals, feature by feature,
and were rapturous in praise of the likeness. But, it
was on a third class,—neither travelled connoisseurs
the pictures wrought their strongest effect.
Such persons might gaze carelessly at first, but, becoming
interested, would return day after day, and
study these painted faces like the pages of a mystic
volume. Walter Ludlow's portrait attracted their
earliest notice. In the absence of himself and his
bride, they sometimes disputed as to the expression
which the painter had intended to throw upon the
features; all agreeing that there was a look of earnest
import, though no two explained it alike. There was
less diversity of opinion in regard to Elinor's picture.
They differed, indeed, in their attempts to estimate the
nature and depth of the gloom that dwelt upon her
face, but agreed that it was gloom, and alien from the
natural temperament of their youthful friend. A certain
fanciful person announced, as the result of much
scrutiny, that both these pictures were parts of one
design, and that the melancholy strength of feeling, in
Elinor's countenance, bore reference to the more vivid
emotion, or, as he termed it, the wild passion, in that
of Walter. Though unskilled in the art, he even
began a sketch, in which the action of the two figures
was to correspond with their mutual expression.
It was whispered among friends, that, day by day,
Elinor's face was assuming a deeper shade of pensiveness,
which threatened soon to render her too true a
counterpart of her melancholy picture. Walter, on
the other hand, instead of acquiring the vivid look
reserved and downcast, with no outward flashes
of emotion, however it might be smouldering within.
In course of time, Elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of
purple silk, wrought with flowers, and fringed with
heavy golden tassels, before the pictures, under pretence
that the dust would tarnish their hues, or the
light dim them. It was enough. Her visiters felt, that
the massive folds of the silk must never be withdrawn,
nor the portraits mentioned in her presence.
Time wore on; and the painter came again. He
had been far enough to the north to see the silver
cascade of the Crystal Hills, and to look over the vast
round of cloud and forest, from the summit of New
England's loftiest mountain. But he did not profane
that scene by the mockery of his art. He had also lain
in a canoe on the bosom of Lake George, making his
soul the mirror of its loveliness and grandeur, till not
a picture in the Vatican was more vivid than his recollection.
He had gone with the Indian hunters to
Niagara, and there, again, had flung his hopeless pencil
down the precipice, feeling that he could as soon
paint the roar, as aught else that goes to make up the
wondrous cataract. In truth, it was seldom his impulse
to copy natural scenery, except as a frame-work for
the delineations of the human form and face, instinct
with thought, passion, or suffering. With store of
such, his adventurous ramble had enriched him; the
stern dignity of Indian chiefs; the dusky loveliness
stealthy march; the battle beneath gloomy pine-trees;
the frontier fortress with its garrison; the anomaly of
the old French partisan, bred in courts, but grown
gray in shaggy deserts; such were the scenes and
portraits that he had sketched. The glow of perilous
moments; flashes of wild feeling; struggles of fierce
power—love, hate, grief, frenzy—in a word, all the
worn-out heart of the old earth, had been revealed to
him under a new form. His portfolio was filled with
graphic illustrations of the volume of his memory,
which genius would transmute into its own substance,
and imbue with immortality. He felt that the deep
wisdom in his art, which he had sought so far, was
found.
But, amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils of the
forest, or its overwhelming peacefulness, still there
had been two phantoms, the companions of his way.
Like all other men around whom an engrossing purpose
wreathes itself, he was insulated from the mass of
human kind. He had no aim—no pleasure—no sympathies—but
what were ultimately connected with his
art. Though gentle in manner, and upright in intent
and action, he did not possess kindly feelings; his
heart was cold; no living creature could be brought
near enough to keep him warm. For these two beings,
however, he had felt, in its greatest intensity, the sort
of interest which always allied him to the subjects of
his pencil. He had pried into their souls with his
features, with his utmost skill, so as barely to fall
short of that standard which no genius ever reached,
his own severe conception. He had caught from the
duskiness of the future—at least, so he fancied—a
fearful secret, and had obscurely revealed it on the
portraits. So much of himself—of his imagination
and all other powers—had been lavished on the study
of Walter and Elinor, that he almost regarded them as
creations of his own, like the thousands with which he
had peopled the realms of Picture. Therefore did
they flit through the twilight of the woods, hover on
the mist of waterfalls, look forth from the mirror of
the lake, nor melt away in the noontide sun. They
haunted his pictorial fancy, not as mockeries of life,
nor pale goblins of the dead, but in the guise of portraits,
each with the unalterable expression which his
magic had evoked from the caverns of the soul. He
could not recross the Atlantic, till he had again beheld
the originals of those airy pictures.
`Oh, glorious Art!' thus mused the enthusiastic
painter, as he trod the street. `Thou art the image of
the Creator's own. The innumerable forms, that
wander in nothingness, start into being at thy beck.
The dead live again. Thou recallest them to their
old scenes, and givest their gray shadows the lustre of
a better life, at once earthly and immortal. Thou
snatchest back the fleeting moments of History. With
thee, there is no Past; for, at thy touch, all that is
live through long ages, in the visible performance of
the very deeds, which made them what they are. Oh,
potent Art! as thou bringest the faintly revealed Past
to stand in that narrow strip of sunlight, which we call
Now, canst thou summon the shrouded Future to meet
her there? Have I not achieved it! Am I not thy
Prophet?'
Thus, with a proud, yet melancholy fervor, did he
almost cry aloud, as he passed through the toilsome
street, among people that knew not of his reveries,
nor could understand nor care for them. It is not
good for man to cherish a solitary ambition. Unless
there be those around him, by whose example he may
regulate himself, his thoughts, desires, and hopes will
become extravagant, and he the semblance, perhaps
the reality, of a madman. Reading other bosoms,
with an acuteness almost preternatural, the painter
failed to see the disorder of his own.
`And this should be the house,' said he, looking up
and down the front, before he knocked. `Heaven
help my brains! That picture! Methinks it will
never vanish. Whether I look at the windows or the
door, there it is framed within them, painted strongly,
and glowing in the richest tints—the faces of the
portraits—the figures and action of the sketch!'
He knocked.
`The Portraits! Are they within inquired he,
of the domestic; then recollecting himself—`your
master and mistress! Are they at home?'
`They are, sir,' said the servant, adding, as he
noticed that picturesque aspect of which the painter
could never divest himself,—`and the Portraits too!'
The guest was admitted into a parlor, communicating
by a central door, with an interior room of the
same size. As the first apartment was empty, he
passed to the entrance of the second, within which,
his eyes were greeted by those living personages, as
well as their pictured representatives, who had long
been the objects of so singular an interest. He involuntarily
paused on the threshold.
They had not perceived his approach. Walter and
Elinor were standing before the portraits, whence the
former had just flung back the rich and voluminous
folds of the silken curtain, holding its golden tassel
with one hand, while the other grasped that of his
bride. The pictures, concealed for months, gleamed
forth again in undiminished splendor, appearing to
throw a sombre light across the room, rather than to
be disclosed by a borrowed radiance. That of Elinor
had been almost prophetic. A pensiveness, and next
a gentle sorrow, had successively dwelt upon her countenance,
deepening, with the lapse of time, into a quiet
anguish. A mixture of affright would now have made
it the very expression of the portrait. Walter's face
was moody and dull, or animated only by fitful flashes,
which left a heavier darkness for their momentary
illumination. He looked from Elinor to her portrait,
and thence to his own, in the contemplation of which
he finally stood absorbed.
The painter seemed to hear the step of Destiny
approaching behind him, on its progress towards its
victims. A strange thought darted into his mind.
Was not his own the form in which that Destiny had
embodied itself, and he a chief agent of the coming
evil which he had foreshadowed?
Still, Walter remained silent before the picture, communing
with it, as with his own heart, and abandoning
himself to the spell of evil influence, that the painter
had cast upon the features. Gradually his eyes kindled;
while as Elinor watched the increasing wildness
of his face, her own assumed a look of terror; and
when at last, he turned upon her, the resemblance of
both to their portraits was complete.
`Our fate is upon us!' howled Walter. `Die!'
Drawing a knife, he sustained her, as she was sinking
to the ground, and aimed it at her bosom. In the
action, and in the look and attitude of each, the painter
beheld the figures of his sketch. The picture, with all
its tremendous coloring, was finished.
`Hold, madman!' cried he sternly.
He had advanced from the door, and interposed himself
between the wretched beings, with the same sense
of power to regulate their destiny, as to alter a scene
upon the canvas. He stood like a magician, controlling
the phantoms which he had evoked.
`What!' muttered Walter Ludlow, as he relapsed
from fierce excitement into sullen gloom. `Does Fate
impede its own decree?'
`Wretched lady!' said the painter. `Did I not
warn you?'
`You did,' replied Elinor calmly, as her terror gave
place to the quiet grief which it had disturbed. `But
—I loved him!'
Is there not a deep moral in the tale? Could the
result of one, or all our deeds, be shadowed forth and
set before us—some would call it Fate, and hurry
onward—others be swept along by their passionate
desires—and none be turned aside by the Prophetic
Pictures.
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