 | CHAPTER XVIII. Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold |  |
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
Autumn had been brought round by the pitilessly
punctual wheel of the Seasons, and the trees probably felt
—as Blivins chanced to feel with a corresponding Octoberness—that
their attraction, for what they had most
rejoiced in, was beginning to weaken. The leaves clung
with less constancy to the trees, and Paul seemed to
adhere with less and less flourishing perpetuity of vegetation
to his faithful Bosh. From passing every day, and the
whole day, at the Blivins studio, Paul was now but an
occasional visitor there—his work at that neglected easel
on the other side of the room, indeed, becoming daily
more uncertain and brief. And it was like a departure of
summer that Bosh felt this falling off. He would have
expressed it clumsily in words, probably, but he had an
affection for his college room-mate that had leaved out into
a most umbrageous ever-pleasantness; and, oh, the wintriness
of shedding such foliage of the soul!
If it had been only that Paul was growing idle, or had
but the apparently real one, he was now bestowing less
time and talk on his old chum and crony, the consolation
might have been easier to find. But there was an inference
which made it a slight, as well as a neglect. It was
another friend—another artist—who was taking Bosh's
place as an intimate. There was even another studio, where
was set an easel at which the faithless fellow spent the
day with his pencil. Those long and precious hours of
gossip over work, the un-pumped flow of thoughts welling
like a spring, were not only thirsty Bosh's, no more, but
somebody else's!
Upon this new intimacy and its peculiar attraction,
Paul was, somehow, curiously incommunicative. He not
only would not introduce Blivins to his friend the sculptor,
but, in their still daily conversations at their common
lodgings, he could not be hinted into a discussion of his
style of genius and works, nor into any description of his
person and manners. That his name was “Signor Valerio,”
and that he was the favorite student of old Secchi the
copyist, was all that the reluctant Paul seemed willing to
communicate; and this to one from whom he never before
had a secret!
Paul's intimacy with the Princess (Signor Valerio) had
taken a new character from the moment of his confessing
himself an artist. Her surprise to find him really one,
conversation of the attaché, the qualities of mind which
had made her designate him, in playful compliment, “an
artist;” and his constant society, as such, chanced to be
just the companionship of which she most felt the want.
The privacy with which both she and Paul were devoting
life to the pursuit of art, while apparently interested only
in the gaieties of a court, made a common bond of sympathy;
and, with an inquiry into his working habits, it
was very natural that she should propose to place an easel
for him where she could share his artistic hours, in her
own well-lighted and luxurious studio. That there was
any reason why those hours of inspired industry—apparently
thrown away on his countryman Blivins, as far as
companionship went—should not be linked with her own
daily life, in a retreat thus hidden from the world, was a
doubt not likely to occur to the Princess, with her habitual
defiance of appearances.
The complete union of the artist-life of the two, however,
had been but gradually brought about. It was not
till the coming on of the summer that the Palefords had
taken their departure (the invalid mother of Sybil ordered
by the physician to the Baths of Lucca); and this, with the
return of Mr. Ashly to England, had left Paul, for the first
time, at full leisure, and with interest and thought to spare,
for the cultivation of a friendship. With time and sensibilities
woman became more and more agreeable as a resort, and
there was no alarm in Paul's mind at the nature of the
new intimacy thus commencing. Startling as it might
have seemed, if its fullest mingling of thoughts and hours
could have been looked forward to, the successive steps to
it were natural and rational. The repose and imperturbableness
of the Princess's habitual tone and presence may have
contributed to this; but it was, probably, more the elevated
level of the leading topics of interest between them. Is
there not a height of intellectual sympathy at which a
friendship between those of opposite sex may be cultivated
without danger from love? Some indirect light is thrown,
upon Paul's experience in the matter, by the following
passage from one of his letters to his mother:—
* * * The path of Art which, in glowing and sanguine
moments, I mark out for myself as peculiarly my own, becomes
very indistinct under depression and discouragement. It is not
merely that I cannot handle my pencil, when out of spirits, but
the handling that I have already done, with a feeling of success
and a belief in its originality, loses all force and beauty to my eye.
If I were working entirely by myself, I should, half the time, neither
be the same person, nor believe Art to be the same thing.
The fact is, dear mother (though it may look like a craving for
flattery), we need some one to talk to us about ourselves. I, at
least, need to be followed very closely by some loving and willing
and, by praise and judicious criticism, re-identifies and restores the
ideal I have lost. The love that would praise blindly and indiscriminately
would not answer for this. While it needs the delicacy
and watchful devotion of a woman, it needs, also, the well-balanced
and unimpulsive judgment of a man.
“Signor Valerio,” in whose studio I oftenest pass my day, at
present, is just this friend to me. He is a sculptor, and works at
his clay model, while, at my easel, near by, I paint or draw. For
any good touch or line of mine, I get the immediate recognition
which inspires me to surpass it; for any doubtful line, I get the
discussion which confirms or rejects; for the concentration and
patience without which there is no excellence (yet which are so
fickle and evasive as moods of the mind), I get approval for what
I show, and encouragement to show more. My genius (if I may
use that word, for lack of a better) does not depend on the
deferred or unheard approval of a distant public, but has its
reward while the glow of performance is still warm, in the near
and present congratulation so much sweeter than tardy fame.
And now, are you prepared for a surprise? And will you
believe that this “Signor Valerio”—the sculptor in artist costume,
and with the confident ease as well as the slouched hat of a gentleman—is
a woman? With your ideas of such matters, my dear
mother, this will seem, first incredible, then disreputable. But do
not condemn too hastily. The Princess C— (who thus disguises
herself) is a woman with genius enough to be entitled to an eccentricity.
I will give you her history, as known to the world, in
another letter. She thus varies her court life, because, to a high
rank in genius she was as much born as to that of a princess, and
she must have privilege and scope as an artist. I formed her
to this intimacy of common pursuits. The sculpture, which is
her utterance of inspiration, is a sort of fraternity of Art between
us which makes her male attire seem natural.
Now, can you not see, dear mother, how this should be, to me,
even more absorbing than a love would be—a friendship without
passion, and better than a passion? Doubtless there is danger in
such an intimacy; for the princess is very lovely as a woman, and
her nature is glowing and fearless—but, escaping this, how precious
is the gem which only with this peril is perfected! I really do not
think a friend complete who has not the mental qualities of the
two sexes; yet, as a man is thought less than man who is feminine
enough for this, it must be a woman who is more than woman by
being masculine enough. And the poetry of sacredness that slumbers
in the background of such a friendship—with a tempting
human passion within reach, for which the else completely united
hearts are too strong and too pure!
Yes, mother! this slender and soft-eyed youth, who looks over
my shoulder as I draw, is the romance of my present life, I am
free to own. And that there are moments when the danger which
belongs to the romance seems critical, I own as freely. Yet professional
habit, and her own unconsciousness, make me forget, for
the great portion of the time, that there is anything to be guarded
against; and it is curious, after all, how much there is conventional
and needless in our notions of what is modest. I leave my work
to look, in turn, at some new beauty of her moulding; and,
though the model is entirely nude—(an ideal of Hermione)—I
stand before it with “Signor Valerio,” and, without a thought of
indelicacy, criticise and admire all its graces and proportions.
She has strangely given to this Hermione, indeed, wholly undraped
of purity around it. And in this look (which, I am un-republican
enough to confess, is a very great fascination of her own) lies part
of the secret, perhaps, why her fearless defiances of dress and conduct
seem all so irreproachable. * * *
As our chapter was going on to say (before this
letter's occurring to us as throwing some light on the
character of Paul's new friendship), there was a sudden
suspension of the neglect about which Blivins had grown
disconsolate. For several mornings the deserter had appeared
and gone duly to work, at his accustomed easel.
No explanation, to be sure, of why he had wandered,
nor why he now returned—but there he was, gentle
and playful as ever, sketching and conversing as naturally
as if no rival intimate and artist had ever made
another studio more agreeable. Bosh was too delicate
as well as too happy to ask questions. He behaved
like a generous woman to her uncatechised truant of a
lover; simply striving to be so much sweeter than ever
that the forgiven sinner would never do so any more.
The pacified Bosh would not have liked to know,
however, why that same Signor Valerio was under the
necessity of dispensing with Paul's society for a while!
In the course of some conversation on the subject
of models, the princess had spoken of the difficulty she
classes; and, with Paul's incidental mention of the slighter
and more graceful American type of female beauty, Miss
Firkin's defeated ambition (as to her portrait and its
justice to her figure) had been naturally alluded to.
A regret expressed by the princess that she had not
been the artist—to obviate the embarrassment by being
of the same sex as the sitter—led to a proposal that
her highness should be introduced to the fair Sophia
as simply a sculptress, and so make the bust which
the Ohio beauty was ambitious of possessing; at the
same time obtaining a study of her form for artistic
uses. There was a novelty of adventure in the matter
which at once took the princess's fancy.
Paul, since the discomfiture and departure of the
fortune-hunting and dinner-seeking baronet, had become
a great favorite with the Firkins. Yet it required some
little diplomacy to arrange the sittings for the bust—
mamma's prejudice on the subject to be encountered,
point blank, and Blivins (the now accepted lover) to
be kept altogether in the dark; besides which, it was
necessary to soften the fact, to Mrs. Firkin at least,
that the sculptress, for incog. reasons of her own,
as well as for convenience, would be apparelled as a
gentleman! These difficulties surmounted, however, the
first interview was brought about; and Mrs. Firkin
that “Signor Valerio” was really of the harmless gender,
and no mistake), was content with once matronizing
her daughter to that queer place, and willing, that, for
the remaining number of sittings, she should go alone.
It was on the days for these tête-à-tête sittings that Paul
was of course excluded from the princess's studio, and
returned, as we have already mentioned, to his friend
Blivins; and as the only eye-witness to give us an account
of what took place in his absence is the fair
sitter herself, we will borrow what she is willing to
tell of it from one of her confidential letters. She thus
wrote to her friend and constant correspondent, Miss Kitty
Kumletts, of Rumpusville, Alabama:
Please receive me in my night-cap and slippers, for I was all
undressed to go to bed, when I found I must first go to Alabama—
so full of thoughts of you, that is to say, that there would be no
sleeping till I had written you a letter. It is not late, either. You
are very certain to be wide awake, yourself. Very likely enjoying
your second-hand sunset—the identical sun that set, for us here in
Florence, three or four hours ago! Of course you love it more
because it has lately seen me; though, when Mr. Fane happened
to mention Europe's getting the first call from the sun and moon,
Pa was quite disgusted with the whole affair. He said the Declaration
of Independence ought to have arranged that our glorious
else.
But, talking of Mr. Fane and me, Kitty, what do you think of
this charming man's having managed to gratify my little pet wickedness
of a wish, after all? I may as well own, I suppose, that this
letter is for nothing but to tell you that I am sitting for my bust!
Pos-i-tive-ly! And, to an artist in trousers that button in front,
and reach (I tremble to write it) to his very heels!
Have you got your breath, my dear, so that I can proceed to
give you the particulars?
You know I wrote to you of the injustice done to my figure by
a portrait in which I was boxed up as a goddess of Liberty, with
nothing visible but a nose, as it were. My sorrows on this point
touched the heart of Mr. Fane. He has an artist's eye, and had
observed my “proportions,” (such a nice, useful word, proportions!)
and not wishing me to be the “full many a flower that's born to
blush unseen,” he set about contriving how I should be seen—in
marble, which is not expected to blush, you know! I thought, at
the first mention of the possibility of it, that mamma would scream
so that you could hear her over there.
But (not to keep you longer in suspense) it appeared that Mr.
Fane had a friend whose profession was sculpture, and who, when
at work, was as like a naughty man as possible; but who had only
to undress to be a lady! It was “Mr. Valerio,” and in masculine
belongings; but there was neither whisker nor moustache, and the
trousers were altogether harmless. So Mr. Fane assured us on his
honor—though mamma had seen boys with smooth faces, and
would trust no apparent young man to be left alone with my “proportions,”
till she had first put her two good Ohio eyes upon him.
Well, we went, first, all together. We were shown into a beautiful
an artist and with a slouched hat, and as like a man—but I will
not aggravate your curiosity by saying how much. Mamma looked
sharp, I assure you! She watched him as he walked round, and
saw him sit down and get up; and heard him speak, and looked at
his chin and under his hat—and, finally, she was content to go
away, with Mr. Fane, and leave me alone with “Signor Valerio.”
What she saw that convinced her, I have no idea, for, to my eyes,
it was exactly as any slender young man would begin by behaving
and looking; but there I was—left unchaperoned with that suit of
clothes and its contents—and nothing but Mr. Fane's “solemn
honor” to satisfy me that it was a woman! And—to “sit” to him,
presently! Oh, Kitty! oh!
Of course you know how they do these things. A clay model,
partly shaped, stood on the stand, and “Signor Valerio,” after a
few minutes' chat, took the wet cloth from this muddy lump, and
very coolly commenced working on the—on the “proportions.”
This was as much as to say, that, as it was to be a likeness of me,
the lovely original was expected to be visible at the same place;
and here commenced my crisis! I had gone there in a loose
wrapper, on purpose—but, to take off my collar and let down my
shoulder-straps, etc., with a pair of pantaloons walking about the
room! Impossible! And then a man's hat with a pair of live
eyes, that might be of any sex whatever, under the rim! Wait till
you have shown your “proportions” under such awful circumstances,
my dear!
No! I was compelled to a compromise. I tried—and tried—
but no! I couldn't! It was not the trousers altogether—but that
hat! As long as such a male unmistakability as a man's hat with
eyes under it was looking right at me, I could never take off my
couldn't be put out of the room.
But, la! with the letting down of the “Signor's” long hair (for
he politely complied with my request, though he wears the hat to
shade his weak eyes from the light), he became female at once!
With those black tresses down his back, the trousers had no manner
of expression! I should not have minded, even if his suspenders
had been visible. And, do you know, I think that it is long
hair that makes the difference, after all? Why the men, who
adore us so, don't let their own hair grow, and thus become just as
adorable, themselves, I cannot conceive. I am wondering whether
I mightn't do several convenient things with my curls let down—
such as wearing trousers for a walk in muddy weather, or for riding
so much more nicely on a man's saddle. Think that over, Kitty,
and perhaps, when I come home, we can set the fashion!
Well, it's very pleasant to have one's figure admired, even by
a woman. Once sure that the trousers were non compos, I “peeled”
(as brother 'Phus calls it, when he strips for a fight), and let myself
be studiously perused by “Signor Valerio” for a couple of hours;
and his compliments to my little inequalities, and his efforts to
make a likeness of what he found perfect, made a charming morning
of it. I have been twice since, and even the clay model is not
yet done. This is to be cast in plaster, you know, and then will
come the finishing in marble—so that I have a long intimacy with
these same innocuous masculinities in prospect.
Now, of all this, my over-particular Blivins knows nothing. He
is to be pacified, when the bust is done, either by having it under
lock and key to himself (to begin with—for, of course, I can have
my own way about it, after awhile), or by having “Hebe” or
“Venus” engraved upon the pedestal, so that people may be let
seen it, the dear honest fellow loves him so much that he
would not mind, I think, even if it had been the original!
I shall write to you of my remaining experiences in “sitting.” I
have a deal to learn myself, for I have not yet made out who or
what this “Signor Valerio” is, or how she and Mr. Fane happen to
be so very well acquainted. She seems pretty—but there's no
knowing what a woman is like till you see her in petticoats. For
these, and some other delightful matters, however, look to my
future letters. To bed, now, dear Kitty, goes your
And, with one of our hero's side-secrets thus confidentially
explained, we shall resume his more direct personal
experiences in another chapter.
| CHAPTER XVIII. Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold | |