University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

“PARDON my intrusion, Mrs. Gerome, and ascribe it
to Elsie's anxiety concerning your health. In compliance
with her request, I have come to ascertain
whether you really require my attention.”

Dr. Grey placed his hat and gloves on the piano, and established
himself comfortably in a large chair near the arch, where
Mrs. Gerome, palette in hand, sat before her easel.

“Elsie's nerves have run away with her sound common sense,
and filled her mind with vagaries. She imagines that I need
medicine, whereas I only require quiet and peace, which neither
she nor you will permit me to enjoy.”

She did not even glance at the visitor, but mixed some colors
rapidly, and deepened the rose-tints in a cluster of apple-blossoms
she was scattering in the foreground of a picture.

“If it is not of vital importance that those pearly petals
should be finished immediately, I should be glad to have you
turn your face towards me for a few moments. There, — thank
you. Mrs. Gerome, do I look like a nervous, whimsical man,
whose fancy mastered his professional judgment, or blunted his
acumen?”

“You certainly appear as phlegmatic, as utterly unimaginative,
as any lager-loving German, whom Teniers or Ostade ever
painted `Unter den linden.'”

“Then my words should possess some influence when they

corroborate Elsie's statement, that you are far from well. Do
not be childishly incredulous, and impatiently shake your head;
from a woman of your age and sense one expects more dignity
and prudence.”

“Sir, your rudeness has at least a flavor of stern honesty that
makes it almost palatable. Do you propose to take my case
into your skilful hands?”

“I merely propose to expostulate with you upon the unfortunate
and ruinous course of life you have decided to pursue. No
eremite of the Thebaid, or the Nitroon, is more completely
immured than I find you; and the seclusion from society is
quite as deleterious as the want of out-door air and sunshine.
Your mind, debarred from communion with your race and denied
novel and refreshing themes, centres in its own operations
and creations, broods over threadbare topics until it has grown
morbid; and, instead of deriving healthful nourishment from
the world that surrounds it, exhausts and consumes itself, like
fabled Arachne, spinning its substance into filmy nothings.”

“Filmy nothings! Thank you. I flatter myself, when I am
safely housed under marble, the world will place a different
estimate upon some things I shall leave behind to challenge
criticism.”

“How much value will public plaudits possess for ears sealed
by death? Mrs. Gerome, you are too lonely; you must have
companionship that will divert your thoughts.”

“Not I, indeed! All that I require, I have in abundance, —
music, books, and my art. Here I am independent, for remember
that he was a petted son of fame, who said, `Books are
the true Elysian fields, where the spirits of the dead converse,
and into these fields a mortal may venture unappalled. What
king's court can boast such company, — what school of philosophy
such wisdom?' Verily if you had ever examined my
library you would not imagine I lacked companionship. Why
sir, yonder, —

Count Oxenstiern spoke truly, when he declared, `Occupied
with the great minds of antiquity, we are no longer annoyed by
contemporaneous fools.'”

She rose and pointed to the handsome cases in the rear room,
filled with choice volumes; and, while she stood with one arm
resting on the easel, Dr. Grey looked searchingly at her.

To-day there was a spirituelle beauty in the white face that
he had never seen before; and the large eloquent eyes were full
of dreamy sunset radiance, unlike their wonted steely glitter. A
change, vague and indefinable, but unmistakable, had certainly
passed over that countenance since its owner came to reside at
“Solitude,” and, instead of marring, had heightened its loveliness.
The features were thinner, the cheeks had lost something
of their pure oval moulding, and the delicate nostrils were
almost transparent in their waxen curves; but the arch of the
lip was softened and lowered, and the face was like that of some
marble goddess on which midsummer moonshine sleeps.

Her white mull robe was edged at the skirt and up the front
with a rich border of blue morning-glories, and a blue cord and
tassel girded it at her waist, while the broad braids of hair at
the back of her head were looped and fastened with a ribbon of
the same color. Her sleeves were gathered up to keep them
clear of the paint on the palette, and the dimples were no longer
visible in her arms. The ivory flesh was shrinking closer to the
small bones, and the diaphanous hands were so thin that the
sapphire asp glided almost off the slender finger around which
it was coiled.

“Mrs. Gerome, you have lost twenty pounds of flesh within
the last two months, and your extreme pallor alarms me.”

“All things look pallid in these rooms, for the light is bluish,
reflected from carpet, furniture, and curtains.”

“I have noticed that you invariably wear blue, to the exclusion
of all other colors.”

“Yes. Throughout the Levant it is considered a mortuary
color; and, moreover, I like its symbolism. The Mater dolorosa
often wears blue vestments; also the priests during Lent; and
even the images of Christ are veiled in blue, as holy week approaches.

Azure, in its absolute significance, represents truth,
and is the symbol of the soul after death; so, as I walk the
earth, — a fleshy `death in life,' — I clothe myself symbolically.
In pagan cosmogonies the Creator is always colored blue.
Jupiter Ammon, Vischnou, Cneph, Krischna, — all are azure.
And because it is a solemn, consecrated color, mystic and mournful,
I wear it.”

“My dear madam, this is a morbid whimsicality that trenches
closely upon monomania, and would be more tolerable in a lackadaisical
school-girl, than in a mature, intelligent, and gifted
woman. Some of your fantasies would be positively respectable
in a Bedlamite, and you seem an anomalous compound of
eccentricities peculiar to extreme youth and to advanced age.”

“I believe, sir, that you are entirely correct in your analysis.
I stand before you, young in years, but forsaken by that `blue-eyed
Hope' who frolics hand in hand with youth; and yet,
utterly devoid of that philosophy and wisdom which justly
belong to the old age of my heart.”

Her tone was indescribably weary, and, as she laid aside her
brush and folded her hands together on the cross-beam of the
easel, the transient light died out of her countenance, and the
worn, tired look, came back and settled on every feature.

wove a strange spell over the visitor, whose gaze was riveted on
the only woman who had ever aroused even temporary interest
in his heart.

She was always beautiful, but to-day there was a helpless,
hopeless abandonment in her listless demeanor, that appealed
successfully to the manly tenderness and chivalry of his nature;
and into his strong, true, noble soul, came a longing to cheer,
and guide, and redeem this strange, desolate woman, whose
personal loveliness would have made her regnant over the gay
circles of fashionable life, yet whose existence was more lonely
than that of an eaglet in some mountain eyrie.

Rising, he leaned against the easel and looked down into the
colorless face that possessed such a wondrous charm for him.

“Mrs. Gerome, for natures diseased like yours, the only
remedy, the only cure, is earnest, vigorous labor; and the regimen
you really require is mournfully at variance with your
present habits and modes of thought.”

“I do labor incessantly; more indefatigably than any ploughman,
or mason, or carpenter. Your prescription has been
thoroughly tested, and found worthless, as an antidote to my
malady, — hopelessness.”

“Unfortunately the labor has all been mental; heart and soul
have stood aloof, while the brain almost wore itself out. This
canvas is destroying you; your creations are too rapid, too
exhausting.”

“Dr. Grey, you grievously misapprehend the whole matter,
for my work reminds me of what Canova once said of West's
pictures, `He groups; he does not compose.'”

Dr. Grey put his hand on her wrist, and counted the rapid,
feeble, irregular pulse.

She made an effort to throw off his fingers, but they clung
tenaciously to the polished arm.

“How many hours do you sleep, during the twenty-four?”

“Sometimes three, occasionally one, frequently none.”

“How much longer do you suppose your constitution will
endure such merciless taxation?”

“I know very little about these things, and care still less, but
as Horne Tooke said, when a foreigner inquired how much
treason an Englishman might venture to write without being
hanged, `I can not inform you just yet, but I am trying.'”

“Has life become such an intolerable burden that you are
impatient to shake it off?”

“Even so, Dr. Grey. When Elsie dies the last link will have
snapped, and I trust I shall not long survive her. If I prayed
at all, it would be for speedy death.”

“If you prayed at all, existence would not prove so wearisome;
for resignation would cure half your woes.”

“Confine your prescriptions to the body, — that is tangible,

and may be handled and scrutinized; but venture no nostrums
for a heart and soul of which you know nothing. Once I was
almost a Moslem in the frequency and fervor of my prayers; but
now, the only petition I could force myself to offer would be
that prayer of Epictetus, `Lead me, Zeus and Destiny, whithersoever
I am appointed to go; I will follow without wavering;
even though I turn coward and shrink, I shall have to follow, all
the same.'”

Dr. Grey sighed heavily, and answered, —

“It is painful to hear from feminine lips a fatalism so grim
as to make all prayer a mockery; and it would seem that the
loss of those dear to you, would have insensibly and unavoidably
drawn your heart heavenward, in search of its transplanted
idols.”

He knew from the sudden spasm that seized her calm features,
and shuddered through her tall figure, that he had touched,
perhaps too rudely, some chord in her nature which —

“Ah, indeed, my heart was drawn after them, — but not
heavenward! No, no, no! My idols were not transplanted, —
they were shattered! — shattered!”

She leaned forward, looking up into his face; and, raising her
hand impressively, she continued in a voice so mournful, so
hopelessly bitter, that Dr. Grey shivered as he listened.

“Oh, sir, you who stand gazing down in sorrowful reproach
upon what you regard as my unpardonable impiety, little dream
of the fiery ordeal that consumed my childlike, beautiful faith, as
flames crisp and blacken chaff. I am alone, and must ever be,
while in the flesh; and I hoard my pain, sparing the world my
moans and tears, my wry faces and desperate struggles. I tell
you, Dr. Grey, —

He did not comprehend her, but felt that her past must have
been melancholy indeed, of which the bare memory was so
torturing.

“At least, Mrs. Gerome, let us thank God, that beyond the
grave there remains an eternal reunion with your idol, and —”

“God forbid! You talk at random, and your suggestion
would drive me mad, if I believed it. Let me be quiet.”

She walked away, and seemed intently watching the sea, of
whose protean face she never wearied; and, puzzled and tantalized,
Dr. Grey turned to examine the unfinished picture.

It represented an almost colossal woman, kneeling under an
apple-tree, with her folded hands lifted towards a setting sun
that glared from purple hills, across waving fields of green and
golden grain. The azure mantle that enveloped the rounded
form, floated on the wind and seemed to melt in air, so dim
were its graceful outlines; and on one shoulder perched a dove
with head under its wing, nestling to sleep, — while a rabbit
nibbled the grass at her feet, and a squirrel curled himself comfortably
on the border of her robe. In the foreground were
scattered sheaves of yellow wheat, full ears of corn, bunches of
blue, bloom-covered grapes, clusters of olives, and various
delicate flowers whose brilliant hues seemed drippings from some
wrung and broken rainbow.

The face was unlike flesh and blood, — was dim, elfish, wan,
with large, mild eyes, as blue and misty as the nebulæ that
Herschel found in Southern skies, — eyes that looked at nothing,
but seemed to penetrate the universe and shed soft solemn light
over all things. Back from the broad, low brow, floated a cloud
of silky yellow hair, that glittered in the slanting rays of sunshine
as if powdered with gold dust; and over its streaming

strands fluttered two mottled butterflies, and a honey-laden bee.
On distant hill-slopes cattle browsed, and at the right of the
kneeling woman a young lamb nibbled a cluster of snowy lilies,
while a dappled fawn watched the gambols of a dun kid; and
on the left, in a tuft of bearded grass, a brown snake arched its
neck to peer at a brood of half-fledged partridges.

“Mrs. Gerome, will you be so kind as to explain this mythologic
design?”

She came back to the easel, and took up her palette.

“If it requires an explanation it is an egregious failure, and
shall find a vacant corner in some rubbish garret.”

“It is exceedingly beautiful, but I do not fully comprehend
the symbolism.”

“If it does not clearly mean the one thing for which it was
intended, it means nothing, and is worthless. Look, sir, she —

Dr. Grey bit his lip, but shook his head.

“You must read me your painted riddle more explicitly. Is
it Ceres?”

“No, sir; a few sheaves do not make a harvest. I am a stupid
bungler, spoiling canvas and wasting paint, or else you are as obtuse
as the critics who may one day hover hungrily over it. Try
the aid of one more clew, and if you fail to catch my purpose, I
will dash my brush all loaded with ochre, right into those mystic,
prescient eyes, and blur them forever. Listen, and guess, —

“Pray do not visit the sin of my stupidity upon that fascinating
picture. I am not familiar with the lines you quote, but

know that you have represented Nature, have embodied an ideal
Isis, or Hertha, or Cybele; though I can not positively name
the phase of the Universal Mother, which you have seized and
perpetuated.”

He caught her arm, and removed from her fingers the palette
and brushes.

“Dr. Grey, it is more than either or all of the three you
mention; for Persian mythology, like Persian wines and Persian
roses, is richer, more subtle, more fragrant, more glowing than
any other. That woman is `Espendérmad.'”

“Thank you; now I comprehend the whole. God has
endowed you with wonderful talent. The fruit and flowers in
that foreground must have cost you much labor, for indeed you
seem to have faithfully followed the injunction of Titian,
`Study the effect of light and shade on a bunch of grapes.' That
luscious amber cluster lying near the poppies is tantalizingly
suggestive of Rhineland, and of the vines that garland the hills
of Crete and Cyprus.”

A shade of annoyance and disappointment crossed the artist's
face.

“Now, I quite realize what Cespedes felt, when, finding that
visitors were absorbed by the admirable finish of some jars and
vases in the foreground of the `Last Supper,' upon which he had
expended so much time and thought, he called his servant and
exclaimed in great chagrin, `Andres, rub me out these things,
since, after all my care and study, people choose to see nothing
but these impertinences.'”

“If Zeuxis' grandest triumph consisted in painting grapes, you
assuredly should not take umbrage at my praise of that fruit on
your canvas, which hints of Tokay and Lachrima Christi. I am
not an artist, but I have studied the best pictures in Europe and
America, and you must acquit me of any desire to flatter when
I tell you that background yonder is one of the most extraordinary
successes I have ever seen, from either amateur or
professional painters.”

Mrs. Gerome arched her black brows slightly, and replied, —

“Then the success was accidental, and I stumbled upon it;

for I bestow little study on the backgrounds of my work. They
are mere dim distances of bluish haze, and do not interest me;
and, since I paint for amusement, I give most thought to my
central figure.”

“Have you forgotten the anecdote of Rubens, who, when
offered a pupil with the recommendation that he was sufficiently
advanced in his studies to assist him at once in his backgrounds,
laughed, and answered, `If the youth was capable of painting
backgrounds he did not need his instruction; because the
regulation and management of them required the most comprehensive
knowledge of the art.'”

“Yes, I am aware that is one of the dogmata of the craft, but
Rubens was no more infallible than you or I, and his pictures
give me less pleasure than those of any other artist of equal
celebrity. Dr. Grey, if I am even a tolerable judge of my own
work, the best thing I have yet achieved is the drapery of that
form. Perhaps I am inclined to plume myself upon this point,
from the fact that it was the opinion of Carlo Maratti that
`The arrangement of drapery is more difficult than drawing the
human figure; because the right effect depends more upon the
taste of the artist than upon any given rules.' That sweep of
blue gauze has cost me more toil than everything else on the
canvas.”

“Pardon the expression of my curiosity concerning your
modes of composition in these singular and quaint creations, for
which you have no models; and tell me how this ideal presented
itself to your imagination.”

“Dr. Grey, I am not a great genius like Goethe, and unfortunately
can not candidly echo his declaration, that, `Nothing
ever came to me in my sleep.' I can scarcely tell you when this
idea was first born in my busy, tireless brain, but it took form
one evening after I had read Charlotte Bronté's `Woman Titan,'
in `Shirley,' and compared it with that glowing description of
Jean Paul Richter, `And so the Sun stands at the border of
the Earth, and looks back on his stately Spring, whose robe-folds
are valleys, whose breast-bouquet is gardens, whose blush is a
vernal evening, and who, when she rises, will be Summer.'

Still it was vague, and eluded me, until I found somewhere in
my most desultory reading, an account of `Espendermad,' one
of the six angels of Ormuzd, to whom was entrusted the guardianship
of the earth. That night I dreamed that I stood under
a vine at Schiraz, gathering golden-tinted grapes, when a voice
arrested me, and, looking over my shoulder, I saw that face
peeping at me across a hedge of crimson roses. Next day I
sketched the features as they had appeared in my dream, but I
was not fully satisfied, and waited and pondered. Finally, I read
`Madonna Mia,' and then all was as you see it now, startlingly
distinct and palpable.”

“Why did you not select some dusky-haired, dusky-eyed,
olive-tinted oriental type, instead of a blonde who might safely
venture into Valhalla as a genuine Celtic Iduna?”

“With the exception of the yellow locks, I suspect the face
of my `Espendermad' might easily be matched among the
maidens of the Caucasus, who furnish the most perfect types of
Circassian beauty. You know there is a tradition that when
Leonardo da Vinci chanced to meet a man with an expression
of character that he wished to make use of in his work, he
followed him until he was able to delineate the face on canvas;
but, on the contrary, the countenances I paint present themselves
to my imagination, and pursue me inexorably until I put them
into pigment. I do not possess ideals, — they seize and possess
me, teasing me for form and color, and forcing me to object
them on canvas. Such is the modus operandi of whims that
give me my `Espendermad' praying to the Sun for benisons on
the Earth, which she is appointed to guard. Ah, if like the
lambkins and birds, I, too, could creep to the starry border of
her azure robe, and lay my weary head down and find repose.
Some day, if my mind ever grows calm enough, I want to paint
a picture of Rest, that I can hang on my wall and look upon
when I am worn out in body and soul, when, indeed, —

“My dear madam, unless you speedily change your present
mode of life, you will not paint that contemplated picture, for a
long rest will soon overtake you.”

A gleam that was nearer akin to joy than any expression he
had yet seen, passed from eye to lip, and she answered, almost
eagerly, —

“If that be true, it offers a premium for the continuance of
habits you condemn so strenuously; but I dare not hope it, and
I beg of you not to tantalize me with vain expectations of
a release that may yet be far, far distant.”

Dr. Grey's heart stirred with earnest sympathy for this
lonely hopeless soul, who, standing almost upon the threshold of
life, stretched her arms so yearningly to woo the advance of
death.

The room was slowly filling with shadows, and, leaning there
against her easel, she looked as unearthly as the pearly forms
that summer clouds sometimes assume, when a harvest-moon
springs up from sea foam and fog, and stares at them. When
she spoke again, her voice was chill and crisp.

“My malady is beyond your reach, and baffles human skill.
You mean only kindness, and I suppose I ought to thank you,
but alas! the sentiment of gratitude is such a stranger in my
heart, that it has yet to learn an adequate language. Dr. Grey,
the only help you can possibly render me is to prolong Elsie's
life. As for me, and my uncertain future, give yourself no
charitable solicitude. Do you recollect what Lessing wrote to
Claudius? `I am too proud to own that I am unhappy. I shut
my teeth, and let the bark drift. Enough that I do not turn it
over with my own hands.' Elsie is signalling for me. Do you
hear that bell? Good-night, Dr. Grey.”