University of Virginia Library

THE COUNTESS NYSCHRIEM,
AND THE HANDSOME ARTIST.

That favored portion of the light of one summer's
morning that was destined to be the transparent bath
of the master-pieces on the walls of the Pitti, was
pouring in a languishing flood through the massive
windows of the palace. The ghosts of the painters
(who, ministering to the eye only, walk the world from
cock-crowing to sunset) were haunting invisibly the
sumptuous rooms made famous by their pictures;
and the pictures themselves, conscious of the presence
of the fountain of soul from which gushed the soul
that is in them, glowed with intoxicated mellowness
and splendor, and amazed the living students of the
gallery with effects of light and color till that moment
undiscovered.

[And now, dear reader, having paid you the compliment
of commencing my story in your vein (poetical),
let me come down to a little every-day brick-and-mortar,
and build up a fair and square common-sense
foundation.]

Graeme McDonald was a young highlander from
Rob Roy's country, come to Florence to study the
old masters. He was an athletic, wholesome, handsome
fellow, who had probably made a narrow escape
of being simply a fine animal; and, as it was, you
never would have picked him from a crowd as anything
but a hussar out of uniform, or a brigand perverted
to honest life. His peculiarity was (and this I
foresee is to be an ugly sentence), that he had peculiarities
which did not seem peculiar. He was full of
genius for his art, but the canvass which served him
him as a vent, gave him no more anxiety than his
pocket-handkerchief. He painted in the palace, or
wiped his forehead on a warm day with equally small
care, to all appearance, and he had brought his mother
and two sisters to Italy, and supported them by a most
heroic economy and industry—all the while looking as
if the “silver moon” and all the small change of the
stars would scarce serve him for a day's pocket-money.
Indeed, the more I knew of McDonald, the more I
became convinced that there was another man built
over him. The painter was inside. And if he had
free thoroughfare and use of the outer man's windows
and ivory door, he was at any rate barred from hanging
out the smallest sign or indication of being at any
time “within.” Think as hard as he would—devise,
combine, study, or glow with enthusiasm—the proprietor
of the front door exhibited the same careless
and smiling bravery of mien, behaving invariably as if
he had the whole tenement to himself, and was neither
proud of, nor interested in the doings of his more
spiritual inmate—leading you to suppose, almost,
that the latter, though billeted upon him, had not
been properly introduced. The thatch of this common
tenement was of jetty black hair, curling in most
opulent prodigality, and, altogether, it was a house
that Hadad, the fallen spirit, might have chosen, when
becoming incarnate to tempt the sister of Absalom.

Perhaps you have been in Florence, dear reader,
and know by what royal liberality artists are permitted
to bring their easels into the splendid apartments of
the palace, and copy from the priceless pictures on
the walls. At the time I have my eye upon (some
few years ago), McDonald was making a beginning
of a copy of Titian's Bella, and near him stood the
easel of a female artist who was copying from the
glorious picture of “Judith and Holofernes,” in the
same apartment. Mademoiselle Folie (so she was
called by the elderly lady who always accompanied
her) was a small and very gracefully-formed creature,
with the plainest face in which attraction could possibly
reside. She was a passionate student of her art,
pouring upon it apparently the entire fulness of her
life, and as unconsciously forgetful of her personal
impressions on those around her, as if she wore the
invisible ring of Gyges. The deference with which
she was treated by her staid companion drew some
notice upon her, however, and her progress, in the
copy she was making, occasionally gathered the artists
about her easel; and, altogether, her position among
the silent and patient company at work in the different
halls of the palace, was one of affectionate and tacit
respect. McDonald was her nearest neighbor, and
they frequently looked over each other's pictures, but,
as they were both foreigners in Florence (she of Polish
birth, as he understood), their conversation was in
French or Italian, neither of which languages were
fluently familiar to Graeme, and it was limited generally
to expressions of courtesy or brief criticism of
each other's labors.

As I said before, it was a “proof-impression” of a
celestial summer's morning, and the thermometer
stood at heavenly idleness. McDonald sat with his
maul-stick across his knees, drinking from Titian's
picture. An artist, who had lounged in from the
next room, had hung himself by the crook of his arm
over a high peg, in his comrade's easel, and every now
and then he volunteered an observation to which he
expected no particular answer.

“When I remember how little beauty I have seen
in the world,” said Ingarde (this artist), “I am inclined
to believe with Saturninus, that there is no resurrection
of bodies, and that only the spirits of the good
return into the body of the Godhead—for what is
ugliness to do in heaven!”

McDonald only said, “hm—hm!”

“Or rather,” said Ingarde again, “I should like to
fashion a creed for myself, and believe that nothing
was immortal but what was heavenly, and that the
good among men and the beautiful among women
would be the only reproductions hereafter. How will
this little plain woman look in the streets of the New
Jerusalem, for example? Yet she expects, as we all
do, to be recognisable by her friends in Heaven, and,
of course, to have the same irredeemably plain face!
(Does she understand English, by the way—for she
might not be altogether pleased with my theory!”)

“I have spoken to her very often,” said McDonald,
“and I think English is Hebrew to her—but my theory
of beauty crosses at least one corner of your argument,
my friend! I believe that the original type of
every human face is beautiful, and that every human
being could be made beautiful, without, in any essential
particular, destroying the visible identity. The likeness
preserved in the faces of a family through several
generations is modified by the bad mental qualities,
and the bad health of those who hand is down. Remove
these modifications, and, without destroying the
family likeness, you would take away all that mars the

beauty of its particular type. An individual countenance
is an integral work of God's making, and God
`saw that it was good' when he made it. Ugliness,
as you phrase it, is the damage that type of countenance
has received from the sin and suffering of life. But
the type can be restored, and will be, doubtless, in
Heaven!”

“And you think that little woman's face could be
made beautiful?”

“I know it.”

“Try it, then! Here is your copy of Titian's
`Bella,' all finished but the face. Make an apothcosis
portrait of your neighbor, and while it harmonizes
with the body of Titian's beauty, still leave it recognisable
as her portrait, and I'll give in to your theory—
believing in all other miracles, if you like, at the same
time!”

Ingarde laughed, as he went back to his own picture,
and McDonald, after sitting a few minutes lost in
revery, turned his easel so as to get a painter's view
of his female neighbor. He thought she colored
slightly as he fixed his eyes upon her; but, if so, she
apparently became very soon unconscious of his gaze,
and he was soon absorbed himself in the task to which
his friend had so mockingly challenged him.

2. II.

[Excuse me, dear reader, while with two epistles I
build a bridge over which you can cross a chasm of a
month in my story.]

McDonald's answer was as follows:—

Rather agitated than surprised seemed Mademoiselle
Folie, when, the next day, as she arranged her brushes
upon the shelf of her easel, her handsome neighbor
commenced, in the most fluent Italian he could command,
to invite her to his wedding. Very much
surprised was McDonald when she interrupted him
in English, and begged him to use his native tongue,
as madame, her attendant, would not then understand
him. He went on delightedly in his own honest
language, and explained to her his imaginative admiration,
though he felt compunctious, somewhat,
that so unreal a sentiment should bring the blood into
her cheek. She thanked him—drew the cloth from
the upper part of her own picture, and showed him an
admirable portrait of his handsome features, substituted
for the masculine head of Judith in the original from
which she copied—and promised to be at his wedding,

and to listen sharply for her murmured name in his
vow at the altar. He chanced to wear at the moment
a ring of red cornelian, and he agreed with her that
she should stand where he could see her, and, at the
moment of his putting the marriage ring upon the
bride's fingers, that she should put on this, and for
ever after wear it, as a token of having received his
spiritual vows of devotion.

The day came, and the splendid equipage of the
countess dashed into the square of Santa Maria, with
a veiled bride and a cold bridegroom, and deposited
them at the steps of the church. And they were followed
by other coroneted equipages, and gayly dressed
from each—the mother and sisters of the bridegroom
gayly dressed, among them, but looking pale
with incertitude and dread.

The veiled bride was small, but she moved gracefully
up the aisle, and met her future husband at the
altar with a low courtesy, and made a sign to the priest
to proceed with the ceremony. McDonald was color
less, but firm, and indeed showed little interest, except
by an anxious look now and then among the crowd of
spectators at the sides of the altar. He pronounced
with a steady voice, but when the ring was to be put
on, he looked around for an instant, and then suddenly,
and to the great scandal of the church, clasped his
bride with a passionate ejaculation to his bosom.
The cornelian ring was on her finger—and the Countess
Nyschriem and Mademoiselle Folie—his bride and
his fancy queen—were one.

This curious event happened in Florence some
eight years since—as all people then there will remember—and
it was prophesied of the countess that
she would have but a short lease of her handsome and
gay husband. But time does not say so. A more
constant husband than McDonald to his plain and
titled wife, and one more continuously in love, does
not travel and buy pictures, and patronize artists—
though few except yourself and I, dear reader, know
the philosophy of it!