 | Pierre, or, The ambiguities |  |
I.
A day or two after the arrival of Lucy, when she had quite
recovered from any possible ill-effects of recent events,—events
conveying such a shock to both Pierre and Isabel,—though to
each in a quite different way,—but not, apparently, at least,
moving Lucy so intensely—as they were all three sitting at
coffee, Lucy expressed her intention to practice her crayon art
professionally. It would be so pleasant an employment for her,
besides contributing to their common fund. Pierre well knew
her expertness in catching likenesses, and judiciously and truthfully
beautifying them; not by altering the features so much,
as by steeping them in a beautifying atmosphere. For even so,
said Lucy, thrown into the Lagoon, and there beheld—as I have
heard—the roughest stones, without transformation, put on the
softest aspects. If Pierre would only take a little trouble to
bring sitters to her room, she doubted not a fine harvest of
heads might easily be secured. Certainly, among the numerous
inmates of the old Church, Pierre must know many who would
have no objections to being sketched. Moreover, though as yet
she had had small opportunity to see them; yet among such a
remarkable company of poets, philosophers, and mystics of all
sorts, there must be some striking heads. In conclusion, she
as having been formerly the studio of an artist, one
window had been considerably elevated, while by a singular arrangement
of the interior shutters, the light could in any direction
be thrown about at will.
Already Pierre had anticipated something of this sort; the
first sight of the easel having suggested it to him. His reply
was therefore not wholly unconsidered. He said, that so far as
she herself was concerned, the systematic practice of her art at
present would certainly be a great advantage in supplying her
with a very delightful occupation. But since she could hardly
hope for any patronage from her mother's fashionable and
wealthy associates; indeed, as such a thing must be very far
from her own desires; and as it was only from the Apostles
she could—for some time to come, at least—reasonably anticipate
sitters; and as those Apostles were almost universally a
very forlorn and penniless set—though in truth there were
some wonderfully rich-looking heads among them—therefore,
Lucy must not look for much immediate pecuniary emolument.
Ere long she might indeed do something very handsome; but
at the outset, it was well to be moderate in her expectations.
This admonishment came, modifiedly, from that certain stoic,
dogged mood of Pierre, born of his recent life, which taught
him never to expect any good from any thing; but always to
anticipate ill; however not in unreadiness to meet the contrary;
and then, if good came, so much the better. He added that
he would that very morning go among the rooms and corridors
of the Apostles, familiarly announcing that his cousin, a lady-artist
in crayons, occupied a room adjoining his, where she
would be very happy to receive any sitters.
“And now, Lucy, what shall be the terms? That is a very
important point, thou knowest.”
“I suppose, Pierre, they must be very low,” said Lucy, looking
at him meditatively.
“Very low, Lucy; very low, indeed.”
“Well, ten dollars, then.”
“Ten Banks of England, Lucy!” exclaimed Pierre. “Why,
Lucy, that were almost a quarter's income for some of the
Apostles!”
“Four dollars, Pierre.”
“I will tell thee now, Lucy—but first, how long does it take
to complete one portrait?”
“Two sittings; and two mornings' work by myself, Pierre.”
“And let me see; what are thy materials? They are not
very costly, I believe. 'Tis not like cutting glass,—thy tools
must not be pointed with diamonds, Lucy?”
“See, Pierre!” said Lucy, holding out her little palm, “see;
this handful of charcoal, a bit of bread, a crayon or two, and a
square of paper:—that is all.”
“Well, then, thou shalt charge one-seventy-five for a portrait.”
“Only one-seventy-five, Pierre?”
“I am half afraid now we have set it far too high, Lucy.
Thou must not be extravagant. Look: if thy terms were ten
dollars, and thou didst crayon on trust; then thou wouldst
have plenty of sitters, but small returns. But if thou puttest
thy terms right-down, and also sayest thou must have thy cash
right-down too—don't start so at that cash—then not so many
sitters to be sure, but more returns. Thou understandest.”
“It shall be just as thou say'st, Pierre.”
“Well, then, I will write a card for thee, stating thy terms;
and put it up conspicuously in thy room, so that every Apostle
may know what he has to expect.”
“Thank thee, thank thee, cousin Pierre,” said Lucy, rising.
“I rejoice at thy pleasant and not entirely unhopeful view of
my poor little plan. But I must be doing something; I must
be earning money. See, I have eaten ever so much bread this
morning, but have not earned one penny.”
With a humorous sadness Pierre measured the large remainder
of the one only piece she had touched, and then would
have spoken banteringly to her; but she had slid away into
her own room.
He was presently roused from the strange revery into which
the conclusion of this scene had thrown him, by the touch of
Isabel's hand upon his knee, and her large expressive glance
upon his face. During all the foregoing colloquy, she had remained
entirely silent; but an unoccupied observer would perhaps
have noticed, that some new and very strong emotions
were restrainedly stirring within her.
“Pierre!” she said, intently bending over toward him.
“Well, well, Isabel,” stammeringly replied Pierre; while a
mysterious color suffused itself over his whole face, neck, and
brow; and involuntarily he started a little back from her self-proffering
form.
Arrested by this movement Isabel eyed him fixedly; then
slowly rose, and with immense mournful stateliness, drew herself
up, and said: “If thy sister can ever come too nigh to
thee, Pierre, tell thy sister so, beforehand; for the September
sun draws not up the valley-vapor more jealously from the disdainful
earth, than my secret god shall draw me up from thee,
if ever I can come too nigh to thee.”
Thus speaking, one hand was on her bosom, as if resolutely
feeling of something deadly there concealed; but, riveted by
her general manner more than by her particular gesture, Pierre,
at the instant, did not so particularly note the all-significant movement
of the hand upon her bosom, though afterward he recalled
it, and darkly and thoroughly comprehended its meaning.
“Too nigh to me, Isabel? Sun or dew, thou fertilizest me!
Can sunbeams or drops of dew come too nigh the thing they
warm and water? Then sit down by me, Isabel, and sit close;
wind in within my ribs,—if so thou canst,—that my one frame
may be the continent of two.”
“Fine feathers make fine birds, so I have heard,” said Isabel,
most bitterly—“but do fine sayings always make fine
deeds? Pierre, thou didst but just now draw away from me!”
“When we would most dearly embrace, we first throw back
our arms, Isabel; I but drew away, to draw so much the closer
to thee.”
“Well; all words are arrant skirmishers; deeds are the army's
self! be it as thou sayest. I yet trust to thee.—Pierre.”
“My breath waits thine; what is it, Isabel?”
“I have been more blockish than a block; I am mad to
think of it! More mad, that her great sweetness should first
remind me of mine own stupidity. But she shall not get the
start of me! Pierre, some way I must work for thee! See,
I will sell this hair; have these teeth pulled out; but some
way I will earn money for thee!”
Pierre now eyed her startledly. Touches of a determinate
meaning shone in her; some hidden thing was deeply wounded
in her. An affectionate soothing syllable was on his tongue;
his arm was out; when shifting his expression, he whisperingly
and alarmedly exclaimed—“Hark! she is coming.—Be still.”
But rising boldly, Isabel threw open the connecting door,
exclaiming half-hysterically—“Look, Lucy; here is the strangest
husband; fearful of being caught speaking to his wife!”
With an artist's little box before her—whose rattling, perhaps,
had startled Pierre—Lucy was sitting mid-way in her
room, opposite the opened door; so that at that moment, both
Pierre and Isabel were plainly visible to her. The singular
tone of Isabel's voice instantly caused her to look up intently.
At once, a sudden irradiation of some subtile intelligence—but
whether welcome to her, or otherwise, could not be determined
—shot over her whole aspect. She murmured some vague
random reply; and then bent low over her box, saying she
was very busy.
Isabel closed the door, and sat down again by Pierre. Her
seemed as one in whom the most powerful emotion of life is
caught in inextricable toils of circumstances, and while longing
to disengage itself, still knows that all struggles will prove
worse than vain; and so, for the moment, grows madly reckless
and defiant of all obstacles. Pierre trembled as he gazed
upon her. But soon the mood passed from her; her old,
sweet mournfulness returned; again the clear unfathomableness
was in her mystic eye.
“Pierre, ere now,—ere I ever knew thee—I have done mad
things, which I have never been conscious of, but in the dim
recalling. I hold such things no things of mine. What I
now remember, as just now done, was one of them.”
“Thou hast done nothing but shown thy strength, while I
have shown my weakness, Isabel;—yes, to the whole world
thou art my wife—to her, too, thou art my wife. Have I not
told her so, myself? I was weaker than a kitten, Isabel; and
thou, strong as those high things angelical, from which utmost
beauty takes not strength.”
“Pierre, once such syllables from thee, were all refreshing,
and bedewing to me; now, though they drop as warmly and
as fluidly from thee, yet falling through another and an intercepting
zone, they freeze on the way, and clatter on my heart
like hail, Pierre.——Thou didst not speak thus to her!”
“She is not Isabel.”
The girl gazed at him with a quick and piercing scrutiny;
then looked quite calm, and spoke. “My guitar, Pierre: thou
know'st how complete a mistress I am of it; now, before thou
gettest sitters for the portrait-sketcher, thou shalt get pupils for
the music-teacher. Wilt thou?” and she looked at him with
a persuasiveness and touchingness, which to Pierre, seemed
more than mortal.
“My poor poor, Isabel!” cried Pierre; “thou art the mistress
of the natural sweetness of the guitar, not of its invented
pay for learning. And what thou hast can not be taught.
Ah, thy sweet ignorance is all transporting to me! my sweet,
my sweet!—dear, divine girl!” And impulsively he caught
her in his arms.
While the first fire of his feeling plainly glowed upon him,
but ere he had yet caught her to him, Isabel had backward
glided close to the connecting door; which, at the instant of
his embrace, suddenly opened, as by its own volition.
Before the eyes of seated Lucy, Pierre and Isabel stood
locked; Pierre's lips upon her cheek.
| Pierre, or, The ambiguities | |