Art and Fashion :: :: University of Virginia Library

Love said to Apollo one day,
Can't you paint me a likeness of Venus?
If not by yourself, I dare say
We might manage to sketch her between us.
But Venus declared, when she saw
The image o'er which they'd been teasing,
That a child might be able to draw
A portrait more perfect and pleasing.

Ah me! not e'en the gods can Beauty please!
Who'd be a portrait painter? Better slave

At any trade . . . . . better . . . . .

(singing)

“A child might be able to draw.”

Could I but realise Imagination,
Give permanence to Fancy, it were well;
But brighter visions visit me in dreams
Than, waking, I can execute. Sleep, sweet sleep!
Thou seem'st the soul of Art; king of a world
In which all others but resolve themselves!
Thine is the key to the impossible,
The wonderful, the magical— (a knock at the door).

Come in!

If sprite or fay,
Make good thy way,
And what thou mean'st by coming, say!

Enter Augusta, dressed in the extreme of fashion.
FERDINAND.
Ah! Cousin mine, a thousand, thousand welcomes!
My eager hand hath scarce thy portrait left.
Methinks the head doth credit to my skill;
It fills the room with life—effuses light;
When cover'd, all seems dark. How lik'st thou it?

AUGUSTA.
Why, yes: 'tis like, no doubt, . . . . but . . . .

FERDINAND.
But!—
“A child might be able to”—
Your pardon, coz;
I deem that portrait, sketchy though it seem,
As near the sweet perfection of thy face
As hand can limn; the likeness free and true.
But for the dress—I am a bungler there;
The trimming is fantastic, and the rest
Needeth some toning down.

AUGUSTA.
Oh, that is easy!

FERDINAND.
You think 'tis easy, then, to catch “a likeness,”
Copy a nose, a mouth, a chin! You're right.
But copying nature is not all that's needed;
Something behind, unfeatured and unnamed—
The dewy light that rims the morning cloud
And lends a life to what was dull and cold—
Such is the light the Artist hath to find,
Else may the portrait show but spiritless.

AUGUSTA.
Certes, a face is like a lamp unlit

Without the mind; it is the living mind
That shapes expression.

FERDINAND.
I know an Artist—
Ay, a great one too, his name still famous—
Who to each sitter took the callipers,
And measured, inch by inch, each feature's place,
Position, and proportion; after that—

AUGUSTA.
He took his canvas

(smiling).
FERDINAND.
No such thing, my coz!
He made a drawing, finish'd and exact,
So bold, so vigorous in execution,
The after painting scarce could rival it;
In fact, the drawing beat the canvas oft.
There was a subtle sentiment he lost
In the translation: still he persevered,
Slowly, yet all determined to excel.
No toil thought he too much; knowing right well
Mere feature's truth is not true portraiture.

AUGUSTA.
You paint not thus?

FERDINAND.
No: I rub in at once;
Yet question if 'tis quicker in the end.
I alter and re-alter; at my whim
Touch and re-touch. That mouth, which seems so slight,
Cost me some hours; I've had it in and out
Full twenty times: at length I took a book,
When, all at once, I saw the matter clear;
A few light touches, and the lips had life;
The portrait spoke: that is—

AUGUSTA.
It should have done!
But this would seem a thing of chance, not Art;
One happy moment, worth ten studious hours!

FERDINAND.
Right—and yet wrong; the myst'ry deeper lies.
The thing to catch is not the outward shape;
Mere form a common copyist may reach;
But inward feeling, sentiment, emotion—
The mind that in its subtle currency
Illuminates each lineament, and gives
At different moments different effects—
'Tis this the Artist tries. . . . .

AUGUSTA.
No doubt, no doubt;
One cannot reach the soul with compasses,
Nor take its depth, nor breadth, nor altitude.

FERDINAND.

You've seen my Hamlet? Well, it cost some thought;
The critics gave me credit for the “Ghost.”
A presence, vague and supernatural—
A shade majestic, worthy of the realm
It left for earth: for that they proffer'd praise
Which cost the slightest trouble. 'Twas the mien,
The mind of Hamlet task'd my utmost power;
Again the mouth proved difficult to hit,
And for a week it ran a daily change.
At last, one touch: lo! 'twas the right effect;
A nervous, sensitive, expressive mouth.
The critics lent no echo to my Hope
That therein would my better fame be found,
But praised the Ghost!—

The Ghost!—well, Fame's a ghost,
And Hope, too oft, a false Astrologer.
Talking of that—of Hope—you like not then
The portrait?

AUGUSTA.
If tongue may freely breathe it,
I much the portrait of our Aunt prefer.

FERDINAND.
Our Aunt dress'd simpler. What can mortal do
With all this heap of frill and frippery?
Art hates gay trimmings: they distract the eye.
What lovelier to a lovely countenance
Than plain attire—simplicity of garb?
I tell thee, Fashion, like a climbing weed,
Destroys the very thing it feeds upon!
Saw'st thou e'er graft upon a nobler stock,
On alder, oak, laburnum, sycamore?
The active root develops its own life
In vigorous shoots from out the parent stem
But these, at once, the gardener destroys:
The nature of the tree is sacrificed
For the more gaudy, showy, flaunting graft!
'Tis thus with you the graft of Fashion shows
Upon a nobler nature.

AUGUSTA.
Indeed! I . . .

FERDINAND.
Nay, stay and hear the rest. As feeds that graft
On qualities superior to its own,
Shoots, born to rise and soar, and drink the air
That circles nearer heaven, so Fashion preys,
So feeds, on Nature's purer elements.
Nature and she are foes. She, Fashion, stands
Cold, artificial, ever in extremes;
She dwells within the world without a heart;
Convention is her god, all vulgar else,
And than be vulgar better not be born.

AUGUSTA.
I'll hear no more.

FERDINAND.
Vulgar! what means the word?
Nothing's so vulgar as the light of day,
Which sits in hovels and lies down with rags;
Nothing's so vulgar as the breath of life,
Which e'en a rat holds equal with one's self;
Nothing—

AUGUSTA
(passionately).

I thought you'd end in nothing!—
Now hear me. Fashion—grant me patience!
'Tis profanation thus to libel her.

She's the world's mirror: people see themselves
As she reflects them, or they see not life;
They breathe but in the presence of her power.
Beauty lends homage due, which she repays
By making Beauty still more beautiful,
Form more attractive, feature more divine;
A grace inspired by her supremacy,
And reach'd but by her vot'ries.

[Walks about.

Fashion! yes:
A thousand servants wait upon her steps:
All hands are busy for her. Ships at sea,
Freighted with charms, obey her welcome summons.
She keeps the “World” in busy agitation;
Shore, quay, and bustling wharf, warehouse and shop,
Teem with her queenly orders. She keeps state,
And every stone grows hot with rolling wheels;
She languishes, and every trade falls dull.
Fashion, indeed! you teach where you've to learn.
I tell thee, Painter, let but Fashion take
Thy genius by the hand—let her but speak—
And she will turn thy palette into gold,
Transmute thy colours into costly gems;
Patrons, in throngs, shall lounge about thy doors,
And Peers outbid each other for the next
Great effort of that hand which Fashion crowns
With her supreme distinction. Fashion!

FERDINAND.
What humour's this? lo, what a heat you're in!—
Eye, cheek, and lip, glowing with lovely fire;—
A moment sit and let me paint you thus, [Augusta walks about.

Each ringlet trembling with strange brilliancy;
Passion becomes you; what a look was there!

AUGUSTA.
Ferdinand! . . . .

FERDINAND.
Well, Cousin!

AUGUSTA.
Speak where you will,
But never more to me; never . . . .

FERDINAND.
For what?
Well may sincerity be rare on earth.
The face belie the feeling, tongue shun truth— [A pause.

Nay, if thus hurt then am I grieved indeed.
Augusta!

AUGUSTA.
Taunts, taunts, taunts, nothing but taunts!
For ever rating me, and scouting Fashion.

FERDINAND.
Because I love—nay, patience—Nature best!—
And yet not Nature more than I loved you,
Ere Fashion won you! Loved you! yes, love still—
Though Fashion seek to cast my quiet life
Too far apart from its divinity!
I worship—but the shrine finds other fires,
And burns to other gods!—

AUGUSTA.
To be so school'd!

FERDINAND.
You'll give your hand?

AUGUSTA.
To be so lectured!
Ever we meet to rail, even now you rail—
You that should kinder be than any one.

FERDINAND.
Well, let me own there's truth in what you spoke
Of Fashion and her power; yet I prefer
To satin robes, and lace, rich gems and flowers,
Some Indian village, by some shore remote—
Some Mohawk, with his arrow and his bow,
Full of that fire immortal Nature lit

When she created Man, whose bounding limb,
Instinct with power—alive with energy—
Ennobled every motion with a grace,
To which—now pardon me—to which, dear coz,
Fashion is manner'd, artificial, cold;
An image, not a being—sign, not fact:
A symbol, not a soul! But I have done—
Now on my last work give me your decree.

[Brings forward a picture, showing village home, with garden, field, and lane, and distant spire.]
AUGUSTA
(after a pause).

Our cottage-home—our dear old cottage-home—
The spot a mother's early love made holy!
The very lane my school-led footsteps stray'd,
Rough with tall fern, and early fox-glove bells,—
The mossy spring round which the village maids
Would tell their merry secrets; whisper tales
Of moonlight meetings,—stories out of school,—
Things little birds had told them—happy days!
That gather'd pleasure from the simplest source.
Sweet days, so fresh with memory's morning dew,
What have ye left like that ye took?

Oh Home!
We never prize thy worth till thou art lost,
And then—how dear, how exquisitely dear!—

FERDINAND.
All things are dear when sorrow shows their worth;
Let but a moment be the scanty space
Between farewell and absence from the loved,
Unknowing the far period of return;
And every simple, trivial, common thing
Becomes array'd with triple interest.

AUGUSTA.
The gate, the tree, the little garden-chair,
The shady corner where the bird-cage hung;
A leaf—a flower—how do they spring to worth
When the heart pains to lose them? Would that all
Could learn to prize before compell'd to lose!
How many would be rich that think they're poor?
How many happy that are discontent?
How many pining, fretful natures blush
To show themselves before true sorrow's face?—
Oh home! oh mother!—oh too early lost!
I seek ye, but a grave is all I find!

FERDINAND
(aside).
Nature speaks now.

AUGUSTA.
That mother, Fred, you loved her dearly once.

FERDINAND.
May memory scorn me when I love her not:
All that I am is owing to her worth;
An orphan 'neath her care,—her brother's child!
She must have loved that brother passing well,
For oft I've known her gaze on me with tears,
And wet my cheek with kisses! When she died—
No, no! not died, such goodness never dies!—
But when God's angels bore that saint to heaven,
A letter on her pillow lay, address'd
“To her young painter,” whom she pray'd might win
A name among Earth's gifted. On one page
(I've read it oft, dear cousin, oft 'mid thoughts
That blinded me with tears)—on one page
She gave her daughter to a heart she knew
Honestly loved her with a manly truth,
Deep, firm, and lasting as the pulse within,—
But you—you have discarded the poor painter.

AUGUSTA.
You would not have a hand without a heart?
Such legacy could not enrich the heir!

FERDINAND.
Enforced affection? What? Against thy will—
Receive a cold, reluctant, backward heart?

Never! Oh God, that letter! [He seizes the letter, and attempts to destroy it.

And yet, thy mother's last, last written lines,
That loving, tender—no, I cannot tear,
But I can yield it! Never more my cheek
Shall sweetly slumber o'er the hope it gave;
My pillow never more its seal shall press
Whilst far in dreams I clomb the steep of fame,
And offer'd name and fortune at thy feet:
Dreams—oh delusions!—dreams that break the heart!
One kiss, dear seal—old friends should kiss at parting.
Now . . . . quickly . . . . take it!

AUGUSTA.
Alone?

FERDINAND.
How mean you?

AUGUSTA.
Not take the honest hand which holds the letter?

FERDINAND.
Be merciful—be candid—be sincere:
Mistake not sudden sympathy for love.
You hesitate, . . . . you do not take the letter.

AUGUSTA.

Not hesitate—if, if you think my life
Can make your own more happy; if my love
Can make existence brighter in your sight;
Can—can reward you for the love I know
You cherish for your giddy, graceless cousin,
Then . . . .

FERDINAND.
Then . . . .
Oh, sainted shade—inheritor of heaven—
Who wert my friend, my one true friend on earth,
My parent when I needed parent most,
Look down, sweet saint, and bless thy grateful children!

AUGUSTA
(after a pause).
This picture—

FERDINAND.
Well?

AUGUSTA.
It never must be sold.

FERDINAND
(struggling to recover his usual tone and feeling).
So; every artist his own purchaser.
'Twere pleasant could it last; but much I fear
Such system scarcely may become the “Fashion!”

AUGUSTA.
Fashion? again, again!

FERDINAND.
An artist's wife . . . .

AUGUSTA.
Seeketh no fleeting aid of ornament.
But how we talk!—you were defeated, Sir:
The victor, not the vanquish'd, proffers terms!

[Exeunt.