University of Virginia Library

“BEAUTY AND THE BEAST;”
OR, HANDSOME MRS. TITTON AND HER PLAIN HUSBAND.

I have always been very fond of the society of
portrait-painters. Whether it is, that the pursuit of
a beautiful and liberal art softens their natural qualities,
or that, from the habit of conversing while engrossed
with the pencil, they like best that touch-and-go
talk which takes care of itself; or, more probably
still, whether the freedom with which they are admitted
behind the curtains of vanity and affection gives
a certain freshness and truth to their views of things
around them—certain it is, that, in all countries, their
rooms are the most agreeable of haunts, and they
themselves most enjoyable of cronies.

I had chanced in Italy to make the acquaintance of
S—, an English artist of considerable cleverness
in his profession, but more remarkable for his frank
good breeding and his abundant good nature. Four
years after, I had the pleasure of renewing my intercourse
with him in London, where he was flourishing,
quite up to his deserving, as a portrait-painter. His
rooms were hard by one of the principal thorough-fares,
and, from making an occasional visit, I grew to
frequenting them daily, often joining him at his early
breakfast, and often taking him out with me to drive
whenever we changed to tire of our twilight stroll.
While rambling in Hyde Park, one evening, I mentioned
for the twentieth time, a singularly ill-assorted
couple I had once or twice met at his room—a woman
of superb beauty attended by a very inferior-looking
and ill-dressed man. S— had, previously, with
a smile at my speculations, dismissed the subject
rather crisply; but, on this occasion, I went into some
surmises as to the probable results of such “pairing
without matching,” and he either felt called upon to
defend the lady, or made my misapprehension of her
character an excuse for telling me what he knew about
her. He began the story in the Park, and ended it
over a bottle of wine in the Haymarket—of course
with many interruptions and digressions. Let me see
if I can tie his broken threads together.

“That lady is Mrs. Fortescue Titton, and the
gentleman you so much disparage is, if you please,
the incumbrance to ten thousand a year—the money
as much at her service as the husband by whom she
gets it. Whether he could have won her had he been

I will not assert, especially to one who looks on them
as `Beauty and the Beast;' but that she loves him,
or at least prefers to him no handsomer man, I may
say I have been brought to believe, in the way of my
profession.”

“You have painted her, then?” I asked rather
eagerly, thinking I might get a sketch of her face to
take with me to another country.

“No, but I have painted him—and for her—and it
is not a case of Titania and Bottom, either. She is
quite aware he is a monster, and wanted his picture
for a reason you would never divine. But I must begin
at the beginning.

“After you left me in Italy, I was employed by the
earl of —, to copy one or two of his favorite
pictures in the Vatican, and that brought me rather
well acquainted with his son. Lord George was a gay
youth, and a very `look-and-die' style of fellow, and,
as much from admiration of his beauty as anything
else, I asked him to sit to me, on our return to London.
I painted him very fantastically in an Albanian
cap and oriental morning-gown and slippers, smoking
a narghile—the room in which he sat, by the way,
being a correct portrait of his own den, a perfect
museum of costly luxury. It was a pretty gorgeous
turn-out in the way of color, and was severely criticised,
but still a good deal noticed—for I sent it to the exhibition.

“I was one day going into Somerset-house, when
Lord George hailed me from his cab. He wished to
suggest some alteration in his picture, or to tell me
of some criticism upon it, I forget exactly what; but
we went up together. Directly before the portrait,
gazing at it with marked abstraction, stood a beautiful
woman, quite alone; and as she occupied the only
point where the light was favorable, we waited a moment
till she should pass on—Lord George, of course,
rather disposed to shrink from being recognised as the
original. The woman's interest in the picture seemed
rather to increase, however, and what with variations
of the posture of her head, and pulling at her glove
fingers, and other female indications of restlessness
and enthusiasm, I thought I was doing her no injustice
by turning to my companion with a congratulatory
smile.

“ `It seems a case, by Jove!' said Lord George, trying
to look as if it was a matter of very simple occurrence;
`and she's as fine a creature as I've seen this
season! Eh, old boy? we must run her down, and
see where she burrows—and there's nobody with her,
by good luck!'

“A party entered just then, and passed between her
and the picture. She looked annoyed, I thought, but
started forward and borrowed a catalogue of a little
girl, and we could see that she turned to the last page,
on which the portrait was numbered, with, of course,
the name and address of the painter. She made a
memorandum on one of her cards, and left the house.
Lord George followed, and I too, as far as the door,
where I saw her get into a very stylishly appointed
carriage and drive away, followed closely by the cab
of my friend, whom I had declined to accompany.

“You wouldn't have given very heavy odds against
his chance, would you?” said S—, after a moment
pause.

“No, indeed!” I answered quite sincerely.

“Well, I was at work, the next morning, glazing a
picture I had just finished, when the servant brought
up the card of Mrs. Fortescue Titton. I chanced to
be alone, so the lady was shown at once into my painting
room, and lo! the incognita of Somerset-House.
The plot thickens, thought I! She sat down in my
`subject' chair, and, faith! her beauty quite dazzled
me! Her first smile—but you have seen her, so I'll
not bore you with a description.

“Mrs. Titton blushed on opening her errand to me,
first inquiring if I was the painter of `No 403' in the
exhibition, and saying some very civil things about the

picture. I mentioned that it was a portrait of Lord
George — (for his name was not in the catalogue),
and I thought she blushed still more confusedly—
but that, I think now, was fancy, or at any rate had
nothing to do with feeling for his lordship. It was
natural enough for me to be mistaken, for she was very
particular in her inquiries as to the costume, furniture,
and little belongings of the picture, and asked me
among other things, whether it was a flattered likeness;—this
last question very pointedly, too!

“She arose to go. Was I at leisure, and could I
sketch a head for her, and when?

“I appointed the next day, expecting of course that
the subject was the lady herself, and scarcely slept
with thinking of it, and starved myself at breakfast to
have a clear eye, and a hand wide awake. And at
ten she came, with her Mr. Fortescue Titton! I was
sorry to see that she had a husband, for I had indulged
myself with a vague presentiment that she was a
widow; but I begged him to take a chair, and prepared
the platform for my beautiful subject.

“`Will you take your seat?' I asked, with all my
suavity, when my palette was ready.

“`My dear,' said she, turning to her husband, and
pointing to the chair, `Mr. S— is ready for you.'

“I begged pardon for a moment, crossed over to
Verey's and bolted a beef-steak! A cup of coffee, and
a glass of Curaçoa, and a little walk round Hanover-square,
and I recovered from the shock a little. It
went very hard, I give you my word.

“I returned, and took a look, for the first time, at
Mr. Titton. You have seen him, and have some idea
of what his portrait might be, considered as a pleasure
to the artist—what it might promise, I should rather
say, for, after all, I ultimately enjoyed working at it,
quite aside from the presence of Mrs. Titton. It was
the ugliest face in the world, but full of good-nature;
and, as I looked closer into it, I saw, among its coarse
features, lines of almost feminine delicacy, and capabilities
of enthusiasm of which the man himself was
probably unconscious. Then a certain helpless style
of dress was a wet blanket to him. Rich from his
cradle, I suppose his qualities had never been needed
on the surface. His wife knew them.

“From time to time, as I worked, Mrs. Titton came
and looked over my shoulder. With a natural desire
to please her, I, here and there, softened a harsh line,
and was going on to flatter the likeness—not as successful
as I could wish, however, for it is much easier
to get a faithful likeness than to flatter without destroying
it.

“`Mr. S—,' said she, laying her hand on my
arm as I thinned away the lumpy rim of his nostril,
`I want, first, a literal copy of my husband's features.
Suppose, with this idea, you take a fresh canvass?'

“Thoroughly mystified by the whole business, I
did as she requested; and, in two sittings, made a
likeness of Titton which would have given you a face-ache.
He shrugged his shoulders at it, and seemed
very glad when the bore of sitting was over; but they
seemed to understand each other very well, or, if not,
he reserved his questions till there could be no restraint
upon the answer. He seemed a capital fellow, and I
liked him exceedingly.

“I asked if I should frame the picture and send it
home? No! I was to do neither. If I would be kind
enough not to show it, nor to mention it to any one,
and come the next day and dine with them en famille,
Mrs. Titton would feel very much obliged to me.
And this dinner was followed up by breakfasts and
lunches and suppers, and, for a fortnight, I really lived
with the Tittons—and pleasanter people to live with,
by Jove, you haven't seen in your travels, though you
are `a picked man of countries!”

“I should mention, by the way, that I was always
placed opposite Titton at table, and that he was a good
deal with me, one way and another, taking me out
you do, for a stroll, calling and sitting with me when
I was at work, etc. And as to Mrs. Titton—if I did
not mistrust your arriere penseé, I would enlarge a
little on my intimacy with Mrs. Titton!—But, believe
me when I tell you, that, without a ray of flirtation,
we became as cozily intimate as brother and sister.”

“And what of Lord George, all this time?” I asked.

“Oh, Lord George!—Well, Lord George of course
had no difficulty in making Mrs. Titton's acquaintance,
though they were not quite in the same circle, and he
had been presented to her, and had seen her at a party
or two, where he managed to be invited on purpose—
but of this, for a while, I heard nothing. She had not
yet seen him at her own house, and I had not chanced
to encounter him. But let me go on with my story.

“Mrs. Titton sent for me to come to her, one
morning rather early. I found her in her boudoir, in
a negligé morning-dress, and looking adorably beautiful,
and as pure as beautiful, you smiling villain! She
seemed to have something on her mind about which she
was a little embarrassed, but I knew her too well to lay
any unction to my soul. We chatted about the weather
a few moments, and she came to the point. You will
see that she was a woman of some talent, mon ami!

“`Have you looked at my husband's portrait since
you finished it?' she asked.

“`No, indeed!' I replied rather hastily—but immediately
apologized.

“`Oh, if I had not been certain you would not,'
she said with a smile, `I should have requested it, for
I wished you to forget it, as far as possible. And now
let me tell you what I want of you! You have got,
on canvass, a likeness of Fortescue as the world sees
him. Since taking it, however, you have seen him
more intimately, and—and—like his face better, do
you not?'

“`Certainly! certainly!' I exclaimed, in all sincerity.

“`Thank you! If I mistake not, then, you do not,
when thinking of him, call up to your mind the
features in your portrait, but a face formed rather of
his good qualities, as you have learned to trace them
in his expression.'

“`True,' I said, `very true!'

“`Now, then,' she continued, leaning over to me
very earnestly, `I want you to paint a new picture,
and without departing from the real likeness, which
you will have to guide you, breathe into it the expression
you have in your ideal likeness. Add, to what
the world sees, what I see, what you see, what all who
love him see, in his plain features. Idealize it,
spiritualize it—and without lessening the resemblance.
Can this be done?'

“I thought it could. I promised to do my utmost.

“`I shall call and see you as you progress in it.'
she said, `and now, if you have nothing better to do,
stay to lunch, and come out with me in the carriage.
I want a little of your foreign taste in the selection of
some pretty nothings for a gentleman's toilet.'

“We passed the morning in making what I should
consider very extravagent purchases for anybody but
a prince royal, winding up with some delicious cabinet
pictures and some gems of statuary—all suited only,
I should say, to the apartments of a fastidious luxuriast.
I was not yet at the bottom of her secret.

“I went to work upon the new picture with the
zeal always given to an artist by an appreciative and
confiding employer. She called every day and made
important suggestions, and at last I finished it to her
satisfaction and mine; and, without speaking of it as
a work of art, I may give you my opinion that Titton
will scarcely be more embellished in the other world
—that is, if it be true, as the divines tell us, that our
mortal likeness will be so far preserved, though improved
upon, that we shall be recognisable by our
friends. Still I was to paint a third picture—a cabinet

full length—and for this the other two were but studies,
and so intended by Mrs. Fortescue Titton. It was
to be an improvement upon Lord George's portrait
(which of course had given her the idea), and was to
represent her husband in a very costly, and an exceedingly
recherché morning costume—dressing-gown,
slippers, waistcoat, and neckcloth, worn with perfect
elegance, and representing a Titton with a faultless
attitude (in a fauteuil, reading), a faultless exterior,
and around him the most sumptuous appliances of
dressing-room luxury. This picture cost me a great
deal of vexation and labor, for it was emphatically a
fancy picture—poor Titton never having appeared in
that character, even `by particular desire.' I finished
it however, and again, to her satisfaction. I afterward
added some finishing touches to the other two, and
sent them home, appropriately framed according to
very minute instructions.”

“How long ago was this?” I asked.

“Three years,” replied S—, musing over his wine.

“Well—the sequel?” said I, a little impatient.

“I was thinking how I should let it break upon you,
as it took effect upon her acquaintances—for, understand,
Mrs. Titton is too much of a diplomatist to do
anything obviously dramatic in this age of ridicule.
She knows very well that any sudden `flare-up' of her
husband's consequence—any new light on his character
obviously calling for attention—would awaken
speculation and set to work the watchful anatomizers
of the body fashionable. Let me see! I will tell you
what I should have known about it, had I been only
an ordinary acquaintance—not in the secret, and not
the painter of the pictures.

“Some six months after the finishing of the last
portrait, I was at a large ball at their house. Mrs.
Titton's beauty, I should have told you, and the style
in which they lived, and very possibly a little of Lord
George's good will, had elevated them from the wealthy
and respectable level of society to the fashionable and
exclusive. All the best people went there. As I was
going in, I overtook, at the head of the stairs, a very
clever little widow, an acquaintance of mine, and she
honored me by taking my arm and keeping it for a
promenade through the rooms. We made our bow
to Mrs. Titton and strolled across the reception room,
where the most conspicuous object, dead facing us,
with a flood of light upon it, was my first veracious
portrait of Titton! As I was not known as the artist,
I indulged myself in some commonplace exclamations
of horror.

“`Do not look at that,' said the widow, `you will
distress poor Mrs. Titton. What a quiz that clever
husband of hers must be to insist on exposing such a
carieature!

“`How insist upon it?' I asked.

“`Why, have you never seen the one in her boudoir?
Come with me!'

“We made our way through the apartments to the
little retreat lined with silk, which the morning lounge
of the fair mistress of the house. There was but one
picture, with a curtain drawn carefully across it—my
second portrait! We sat down on the luxurious
cushions, and the widow went off into a discussion of
it and the original, pronouncing it a perfect likeness,
not at all flattered, and very soon begging me to redraw
the curtain, lest we should be surprised by Mr.
Titton himself.

“`And suppose we were?' said I.

“`Why, he is such an oddity!' replied the widow
lowering her tone. `They say that in this very house
he has a suite of apartments entirely to himself, furnished
with a taste and luxury really wonderful! There
are two Mr. Tittons, my dear friend!—one a perfect
Sybarite, very elegant in his dress when he chooses
to be, excessively accomplished and fastidious, and
brilliant and fascinating to a degree!—(and in this
character they say he won that superb creature for a
wife), and the other Mr. Titton is just the slovenly
monster that everybody sees! Isn't it odd!'

“`Queer enough!' said I, affecting great astonishment;
`pray, have you ever been into these mysterious
apartments?'

“`No!—they say only his wife and himself and one
confidential servant ever pass the threshold. Mrs.
Titton don't like to talk about it—though one would
think she could scarcely object to her husband's being
thought better of. It's pride on his part—sheer pride
—and I can understand the feeling very well! He's
a very superior man, and he has made up his mind
that the world thinks him very awkward and
ugly, and he takes a pleasure in showing the world
that he don't care a rush for its opinion, and has resources
quite sufficient within himself. That's the
reason that atrocious portrait is hung up in the best
room, and this good-looking one covered up with a
curtain! I suppose this wouldn't be here if he could
have his own way, and if his wife wasn't so much in
love with him!'

“This, I assure you,” said S—, “is the impression
throughout their circle of acquaintances.
The Tittons themselves maintain a complete silence
on the subject. Mr. Fortescue Titton is considered
a very accomplished man, with a very proud and very
secret contempt for the opinions of the world—dressing
badly on purpose, silent and simple by design, and only
caring to show himself in his real character to his
beautiful wife, who is thought to be completely in love
with him, and quite excusable for it! What do you
think of the woman's diplomatic talents?”

“I think I should like to know her,” said I; “but
what says Lord George to all this?”

“I had a call from Lord George not long ago,”
replied S—, “and for the first time since our
chat at Somerset-House, the conversation turned upon
the Tittons.

“`Devilish sly of you!' said his lordship, turning
to me half angry, `why did you pretend not to know
the woman at Somerset-House? You might have
saved me lots of trouble and money, for I was a month
or two finding out what sort of people they were—
feeing the servants and getting them called on and
invited here and there—all with the idea that it was
a rich donkey with a fine toy that didn't belong to him!”

“`Well!' exclaimed I—

“`Well!—not at all well! I made a great ninny
of myself, with that satirical slyboots, old Titton,
laughing at me all the time, when you, that had
painted him in his proper character and knew what a
deep devil he was, might have saved me with but half
a hint!'

“`You have been in the lady's boudoir then!'

“`Yes, and in the gentleman's sanctum sanctorum!
Mrs. Titton sent for me about some trumpery thing
or other, and when I called, the servant showed me in
there by mistake. There was a great row in the house
about it, but I was there long enough to see what a
monstrous nice time the fellow has of it, all to himself,
and to see your picture of him in his private
character. The picture you made of me was only a
copy of that, you sly traitor! And I suppose Mrs.
Titton didn't like your stealing from hers, did she—
for, I take it that was what ailed her at the exhibition,
when you allowed me to be so humbugged!'

“I had a good laugh, but it was as much at the
quiet success of Mrs. Titton's tactics as at Lord
George's discomfiture. Of course, I could not undeceive
him. And now,” continued S—, very
good-naturedly, “just ring for a pen and ink, and I'll
write a note to Mrs. Titton, asking leave to bring you
there this evening, for it's her `night at home,' and
she's worth seeing, if my pictures, which you will see
there, are not.”