University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.

The sunlight of a warm spring day flashed
through the open window, and made golden
arabesque tracery on the walls and portraits
of the parlor at Huntingdon Hill. The costly
crimson damask curtains had long since
been cut into shirts for the soldiers, and transported
to the Army of Tennessee, and air
and sunshine entered unimpeded. Electra
sat before her canvas in this room, absorbed
in the design which now engaged every
thought. The witchery of her profession had
woven its spell about her banishing for a time
the spectral Past.

The extension of the Conscription statute
had, several months before, deprived Irene of
a valued and trusty overseer; and to satisfy
herself concerning the character of his successor,
and the condition of affairs at home, she
and her uncle had returned to W—, bringing
Electra with them.

Irene stood on the colonnade, leaning over
the back of Eric Mitchell's arm-chair, dropping
crumbs for the pigeons that cooed and
scrambled at her feet, and looking dreamily
down the avenue at the band of orphans who
had just paid her a visit, and were returning
to the asylum, convoyed by the matron.

“What contented-looking, merry little children
those are,” said her uncle, watching the
small figures diminish as they threaded the
avenue.

“Yes; they are as happy as orphans possibly
can be. I love to look into their smiling,
rosy faces, and feel their dimpled hands steal
timidly into mine. But, uncle, Dr. Arnold
has finished his nap, and is waiting for you.”

She gave him her arm to the library-door,
saw him seated comfortably at the table,
where the doctor was examining a mass of
papers, then joined Electra in the parlor.

“What progress are you making, Electra?”

“Very little. I can't work well to-day.
Ruskin says that no artist has fully grasped or
matured his subject who can not quit one portion
of it at any moment, and proceed to the
completion of some other part. Doubtless he
is correct; but I am so haunted by those blue
eyes that I can paint nothing else this afternoon.
Do you recognize them? Yours, Irene.
Forgive me; but I can find no others, in imagination
or in life, that so fully express serenity.
My work has taken marvellous hold
upon me; sleeping or waking, it follows, possesses
me. I shall not hurry myself; I intend
that the execution shall be equal to my ideal—
and that ideal entirely worthy of the theme. I
want to lay my “Modern Macaria,” as the
first offering of Southern Art, upon my country's
altar, as a nucleus around which nobler
and grander pictures, from the hands of my
countrymen and women, shall cluster. In
sunny climes like ours, my glorious Art had
its birth, its novitiate, its apotheosis; and who
dare say that future ages shall not find Art-students
from all nations pressing, like pilgrims,
to the Perfected School of the Southern
States? Ancient republics offered premiums,
and saw the acme of the arts; why not our
Confederate republic, when days of national
prosperity dawn upon us? If the legislature
of each state would annually purchase,
for the embellishment of the galleries and
grounds of its capital, the best picture or
statue produced within its borders during the
twelvemonths, a generous emulation would
be encouraged. Our marble-hearted land
will furnish materials, which Southern genius
can mould into monuments of imperishable
beauty. This war furnishes instances of heroism
before which all other records pale,
and our Poets, Sculptors, and Painters have
only to look around them for subjects which
Greek or Italian Art would glorify and immortalize.

“Our resources are inexhaustible, our capabilities
as a people unlimited, and we require
only the fostering influences which Cosmo De
Medici and Niccolo Niccoli exerted in Florence,
to call into action energies and latent
talents of which we are, as yet, scarcely conscious.
Such patrons of Art and Literature I
hope to find in the planters of the Confederacy.
They have wealth, leisure, and every requisite
adjunct, and upon them, as a class,
must devolve this labor of love — the accomplishment
of an American Renaissance—the
development of the slumbering genius of our
land. Burke has remarked: `Nobility is a
graceful ornament to the civil order; it is the
Corinthian capital of polished society.” Certainly
Southern planters possess all the elements
of this highest order of social architec
ture, and upon their correct appreciation of
the grave responsibility attending their wealth
and influence depends, in great degree, our
emancipation from the gross utilitarianism
which has hitherto characterized us, and our
progress in refinement and æsthetic culture.
As we are distinct, socially and politically,
from other nations, so let us be, intellectually
and artistically. The world has turned its
back upon us in our grapple with tyranny;
and, in the hour of our triumph, let us not forget
that, as we won Independence without aid
or sympathy, so we can maintain it in all departments.”

“Electra, in order to effect this `consummation
devoutly to be wished,' it is necessary
that the primary branches of Art should be
popularized, and thrown open to the masses.
Mill contends, in his Political Economy, that
the remuneration of the peculiar employments
of women is always far below that of employments
of equal skill carried on by men, and
he finds an explanation in the fact that they
are overstocked. Hence, in improving the
condition of women, it is advisable to give
them the readiest access to independent industrial
pursuits, and extend the circle of
their appropriate occupations. Our Revolution
has beggard thousands, and deprived
many of their natural providers; numbers
of women in the Confederacy will be thrown
entirely upon their own resources for maintenance.
All can not be mantua-makers,
milliners, or school-teachers; and in order to
open for them new avenues of support, I have
determined to establish, in W—, a School
of Design for women—similar in plan, though
more extensive, than that founded some years
ago by Mrs. Peter, of Philadelphia. The upper
portion of the building will be arranged
for drawing classes, wood-engraving, and the
various branches of Design; and the lower,
corresponding in size and general appearance,
I intend for a circulating library for our
county. Over that School of Design I
want you to preside; your talents, your education,
your devotion to your Art fit you peculiarly
for the position. The salary shall be
such as to compensate you for your services;
and, when calmer days dawn upon us, we
may be able to secure some very valuable
lecturers among our gentlemen-artists. I
have a large lot on the corner of Pine street
and Huntingdon avenue, opposite the court-house,
which will be a fine location for it, and
I wish to appropriate it to this purpose.
While you are adorning the interior of the
building, the walls of which are to contain
frescoes of some of the most impressive scenes
of our Revolution, I will embellish the grounds
in front, and make them my special charge.
I understand the cultivation of flowers, though
the gift of painting them is denied me. Yesterday
I sold my diamonds for a much larger
amount than I supposed they would command,

and this sum, added to other funds now at my
disposal, will enable me to accomplish the
scheme. Dr. Arnold and uncle Eric cordially
approve my plan, will aid me very
liberally, and as soon as tranquillity is restored
I shall succeed in erecting the building without
applying to any one else for assistance.
When your picture is finished, I wish you
to make me a copy to be hung up in our
School of Design, that the students may be
constantly reminded of the debt of gratitude
we owe our armies. How life-like your figures
grow; I can almost see the quiver of that wife's
white lips and hear the dismal howling of
the dead man's dog.”

The canvas, which she leaned forward to
inspect more closely, contained an allegorical
design representing, in the foreground, two
female figures. One stern, yet noble-featured,
crowned with stars—triumph and exultation
flashing in the luminous eyes; Independence,
crimson-mantled, grasping the Confederate
Banner of the Cross, whose victorious folds
streamed above a captured battery, where
a Federal flag trailed in the dust. At her
side stood white-robed, angelic Peace, with
one hand over the touchhole of the cannon
against which she leaned, and the other extended
in benediction. Vividly the faces
contrasted—one all athrob with national pride,
beaming with brilliant destiny; the other
wonderfully serene and holy. In the distance,
gleaming in the evening light which streamed
from the West, tents dotted a hill-side; and,
intermediate between Peace and the glittering
tents, stretched a torn, stained battle-field,
over which the roar and rush of conflict had
just swept, leaving mangled heaps of dead in
attestation of its fury. Among the trampled,
bloody sheaves of wheat, an aged, infirm
Niobe-mother bent in tearless anguish,
pressing her hand upon the pulseless heart of
a handsome boy of sixteen summers, whose
yellow locks were dabbled from his death
wound. A few steps farther, a lovely young
Wife, kneeling beside the stalwart, rigid form
of her Husband, whose icy fingers still clutched
his broken sword, lifted her woful, ashen face
to Heaven in mute despair, while the fair-browed
infant on the ground beside her
dipped its little snowy, dimpled feet in a pool of
its father's blood, and, with tears of terror still
glistening on its cheeks, laughed at the scarlet
coloring. Just beyond these mourners, a girl
of surpassing beauty, whose black hair floated
like a sable banner on the breeze, clasped her
rounded arms about her dead patriot Lover,
and kept her sad vigil in voiceless agony—
with all of Sparta's stern stoicism in her blanched,
stony countenance. And, last of the stricken
groups, a faithful dog, crouching close to the
corpse of an old silver-haired man, threw back
his head and howled in desolation. Neither
blue shadows, nor wreathing, rosy mists, nor
golden haze of sunset glory, softened the
sacrificial scene, which showed its grim features
strangely solemn in the weird, fading,
crepuscular light.

“How many months do you suppose it will
require to complete it?” asked Irene, whose
interest in the picture was scarcely inferior
to that of its creator.

“If I work steadily upon it, I can soon finish
it; but if I go with you to a Tennessee hospital,
I must, of course, leave it here until the war
ends. After all, Irene, the joy of success does
not equal that which attends the patient
working. Perhaps it is because `anticipation
is the purest part of pleasure.' I love my
work; no man or woman ever loved it better;
and yet there is a painful feeling of isolation,
of loneliness, which steals over me sometimes,
and chills all my enthusiasm. It is so mournful
to know that, when the labor is ended, and
a new chaplet encircles my brow, I shall have
no one but you to whom I can turn for sympathy
in my triumph. If I feel this so keenly
now, how shall I bear it when the glow of life
fades into sober twilight shadows, and age
creeps upon me?

She threw down her brush and palette, and,
turning toward her companion, leaned her
purplish head against her.

“Electra, it is very true that single women
have trials for which a thoughtless, happy
world has little sympathy. But lonely lives
are not necessarily joyless; they should be, of
all others, most useful. The head of a household,
a wife and mother, is occupied with
family cares and affections—can find little
time for considering the comfort, or contributing
to the enjoyment of any beyond the home-circle.
Doubtless she is happier, far happier,
than the unmarried woman; but to the last
belongs the privilege of carrying light and
blessings to many firesides—of being the friend
and helper of hundreds; and because she belongs
exclusively to no one, her heart expands
to all her suffering fellow-creatures. In
my childhood I always thought of Old-Maids
with a sensation of contempt and repulsion;
now I regard those among them who preserve
their natures from cynicism and querulousness,
and prove themselves social evangels of mercy,
as an uncrowned host of martyrs. Electra,
remember other words of the same vigorous,
gifted woman whom you so often quote:

“Remember that the woman who dares to

live alone, and be sneered at, is braver, and
nobler, and better than she who escapes both
in a loveless marriage. It is true that you and
I are very lonely, and yet our future holds
much that is bright. You have the profession
you love so well, and our new School of Design,
to engage your thoughts; and I a thousand
claims on my time and attention. I have
uncle Eric to take care of and to love; and Dr.
Arnold, who is growing quite infirm, has
promised me that, as soon as he can be spared
from the hospitals, he will make his home with
us. When this storm of war has spent itself,
your uncle's family will return from Europe
and reside here with you. Harvey, too, will
come to W — to live—will probably take
charge of Mr. Campbell's church—and we shall
have the pleasure and benefit of his constant
counsel. If I could see you a member of that
church I should be better satisfied — and you
would be happier.”

“I would join to-morrow, if thereby I could
acquire your sublime faith, and strength, and
resignation. Oh, Irene! my friend and comforter!
I want to live differently in future.
Once I was wedded to life and my Art—pre-eminence
in my profession, fame, was all that
I cared to attain; now I desire to spend my
remaining years so that I may meet Russell
beyond the grave. His death broke the ties
that bound me to this world; I live now in
hope of reunion in God's eternal kingdom. I
have been selfish, and careless, and complaining;
but, oh! I want to do my whole duty
henceforth. Irene, my calm, sweet, patient
guide, teach me to be more like you.”

“Electra, take Christ for your model, instead
of an erring human being like yourself,
constantly falling short of her own duty.
With Harvey to direct us, we ought to accomplish
a world of good, here in sight of Russell's
grave. Cheer up! God's great vineyard
stretches before us, calling for laborers. Hand
in hand, we will go in and work till evening
shades close over us; then lift up, in token of our
faithfulness, rich ripe clusters of purple fruitage.
You and I have much to do, during
these days of gloom and national trial—for upon
the purity, the devotion, and the patriotism of
the women of our land, not less than upon the
heroism of our armies, depends our national
salvation. To jealously guard our homes and
social circles from the inroads of corruption,
to keep the fires of patriotism burning upon
the altars of the South, to sustain and en
courage those who are wrestling along the
border for our birthright of freedom, is the
consecrated work to which we are called; and
beyond this bloody baptism open vistas of life-long
usefulness, when the reign of wrong and
tyranny is ended, when the roar of battle, the
blast of bugle, and beat of drum is hushed
among our hills, and Peace! blessed Peace!
again makes her abode in our smiling, flowery
valleys. Hasten the hour, oh! my God!
when her white wings shall hover over us
once more!”

The eyes of the artist went back to the
stainless robes and seraphic face of her pictured
Peace in the loved “Modern Macaria,” and, as
she resumed her work, her brow cleared, the
countenance kindled as in days of yore, bitter
memories hushed their moans and fell asleep
at the wizard touch of her profession, and the
stormy, stricken soul found balm and rest in
Heaven-appointed Labor.

Standing at the back of Electra's chair,
with one hand resting on her shoulder, Irene
raised her holy violet eyes, and looked through
the window toward the cemetery, where glittered
a tall marble shaft which the citizens of
W — had erected over the last quiet resting-place
of Russell Aubrey. Sands of Time
were drifting stealthily around the crumbling
idols of the morning of life, levelling and tenderly
shrouding the Past, but sorrow left its
softening shadow on the orphan's countenance,
and laid its chastening finger about the lips
which meekly murmured: “Thy will be
done.” The rays of the setting sun gilded her
mourning-dress, gleamed in the white roses
that breathed their perfume in her rippling
hair, and lingered like a benediction on the
placid, pure face of the lonely woman who had
survived every earthly hope; and who, calmly
fronting her Altars of Sacrifice, here dedicated
herself anew to the hallowed work of promoting
the happiness and gladdening the
paths of all who journeyed with her down
the chequered aisles of Time.