Twice-Told Tales (20 page)

The cynic, having cast aside his spectacles, wandered about the world
a miserable object, and was punished with an agonizing desire of light
for the wilful blindness of his former life. The whole night long he
would lift his splendor-blasted orbs to the moon and stars; he turned
his face eastward at sunrise as duly as a Persian idolater; he made a
pilgrimage to Rome to witness the magnificent illumination of Saint
Peter's church, and finally perished in the Great Fire of London, into
the midst of which he had thrust himself with the desperate idea of
catching one feeble ray from the blaze that was kindling earth and
heaven.

Matthew and his bride spent many peaceful years and were fond of
telling the legend of the Great Carbuncle. The tale, however, toward
the close of their lengthened lives, did not meet with the full
credence that had been accorded to it by those who remembered the
ancient lustre of the gem. For it is affirmed that from the hour when
two mortals had shown themselves so simply wise as to reject a jewel
which would have dimmed all earthly things its splendor waned. When
our pilgrims reached the cliff, they found only an opaque stone with
particles of mica glittering on its surface. There is also a tradition
that as the youthful pair departed the gem was loosened from the
forehead of the cliff and fell into the enchanted lake, and that at
noontide the Seeker's form may still be seen to bend over its
quenchless gleam.

Some few believe that this inestimable stone is blazing as of old, and
say that they have caught its radiance, like a flash of summer
lightning, far down the valley of the Saco. And be it owned that many
a mile from the Crystal Hills I saw a wondrous light around their
summits, and was lured by the faith of poesy to be the latest pilgrim
of the Great Carbuncle.

[5]

"But this painter!" cried Walter Ludlow, with animation. "He not only
excels in his peculiar art, but possesses vast acquirements in all
other learning and science. He talks Hebrew with Dr. Mather and gives
lectures in anatomy to Dr. Boylston. In a word, he will meet the
best-instructed man among us on his own ground. Moreover, he is a
polished gentleman, a citizen of the world—yes, a true cosmopolite;
for he will speak like a native of each clime and country on the
globe, except our own forests, whither he is now going. Nor is all
this what I most admire in him."

"Indeed!" said Elinor, who had listened with a women's interest to the
description of such a man. "Yet this is admirable enough."

"Surely it is," replied her lover, "but far less so than his natural
gift of adapting himself to every variety of character, insomuch that
all men—and all women too, Elinor—shall find a mirror of themselves
in this wonderful painter. But the greatest wonder is yet to be told."

"Nay, if he have more wonderful attributes than these," said Elinor,
laughing, "Boston is a perilous abode for the poor gentleman. Are you
telling me of a painter, or a wizard?"

"In truth," answered he, "that question might be asked much more
seriously than you suppose. They say that he paints not merely a man's
features, but his mind and heart. He catches the secret sentiments and
passions and throws them upon the canvas like sunshine, or perhaps, in
the portraits of dark-souled men, like a gleam of infernal fire. It is
an awful gift," added Walter, lowering his voice from its tone of
enthusiasm. "I shall be almost afraid to sit to him."

"Walter, are you in earnest?" exclaimed Elinor.

"For Heaven's sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him paint the look
which you now wear," said her lover, smiling, though rather perplexed.
"There! it is passing away now; but when you spoke, you seemed
frightened to death, and very sad besides. What were you thinking of?"

"Nothing, nothing!" answered Elinor, hastily. "You paint my face with
your own fantasies. Well, come for me tomorrow, and we will visit this
wonderful artist."

But when the young man had departed, it cannot be denied that a
remarkable expression was again visible on the fair and youthful face
of his mistress. It was a sad and anxious look, little in accordance
with what should have been the feelings of a maiden on the eve of
wedlock. Yet Walter Ludlow was the chosen of her heart.

"A look!" said Elinor to herself. "No wonder that it startled him if
it expressed what I sometimes feel. I know by my own experience how
frightful a look may be. But it was all fancy. I thought nothing of it
at the time; I have seen nothing of it since; I did but dream it;" and
she busied herself about the embroidery of a ruff in which she meant
that her portrait should be taken.

The painter of whom they had been speaking was not one of those native
artists who at a later period than this borrowed their colors from the
Indians and manufactured their pencils of the furs of wild beasts.
Perhaps, if he could have revoked his life and prearranged his
destiny, he might have chosen to belong to that school without a
master in the hope of being at least original, since there were no
works of art to imitate nor rules to follow. But he had been born and
educated in Europe. People said that he had studied the grandeur or
beauty of conception and every touch of the master-hand in all the
most famous pictures in cabinets and galleries and on the walls of
churches till there was nothing more for his powerful mind to learn.
Art could add nothing to its lessons, but Nature might. He had,
therefore, visited a world whither none of his professional brethren
had preceded him, to feast his eyes on visible images that were noble
and picturesque, yet had never been transferred to canvas. America was
too poor to afford other temptations to an artist of eminence, though
many of the colonial gentry on the painter's arrival had expressed a
wish to transmit their lineaments to posterity by moans of his skill.
Whenever such proposals were made, he fixed his piercing eyes on the
applicant and seemed to look him through and through. If he beheld
only a sleek and comfortable visage, though there were a gold-laced
coat to adorn the picture and golden guineas to pay for it, he civilly
rejected the task and the reward; but if the face were the index of
anything uncommon in thought, sentiment or experience, or if he met a
beggar in the street with a white beard and a furrowed brow, or if
sometimes a child happened to look up and smile, he would exhaust all
the art on them that he denied to wealth.

Pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the painter became an
object of general curiosity. If few or none could appreciate the
technical merit of his productions, yet there were points in regard to
which the opinion of the crowd was as valuable as the refined judgment
of the amateur. He watched the effect that each picture produced on
such untutored beholders, and derived profit from their remarks, while
they would as soon have thought of instructing Nature herself as him
who seemed to rival her. Their admiration, it must be owned, was
tinctured with the prejudices of the age and country. Some deemed it
an offence against the Mosaic law, and even a presumptuous mockery of
the Creator, to bring into existence such lively images of his
creatures. Others, frightened at the art which could raise phantoms at
will and keep the form of the dead among the living, were inclined to
consider the painter as a magician, or perhaps the famous Black Man of
old witch-times plotting mischief in a new guise. These foolish
fancies were more, than half believed among the mob. Even in superior
circles his character was invested with a vague awe, partly rising
like smoke-wreaths from the popular superstitions, but chiefly caused
by the varied knowledge and talents which he made subservient to his
profession.

Being on the eve of marriage, Walter Ludlow and Elinor were eager to
obtain their portraits as the first of what, they doubtless hoped,
would be a long series of family pictures. The day after the
conversation above recorded they visited the painter's rooms. A
servant ushered them into an apartment where, though the artist
himself was not visible, there were personages whom they could hardly
forbear greeting with reverence. They knew, indeed, that the whole
assembly were but pictures, yet felt it impossible to separate the
idea of life and intellect from such striking counterfeits. Several of
the portraits were known to them either as distinguished characters of
the day or their private acquaintances. There was Governor Burnett,
looking as if he had just received an undutiful communication from the
House of Representatives and were inditing a most sharp response. Mr.
Cooke hung beside the ruler whom he opposed, sturdy and somewhat
puritanical, as befitted a popular leader. The ancient lady of Sir
William Phipps eyed them from the wall in ruff and farthingale, an
imperious old dame not unsuspected of witchcraft. John Winslow, then a
very young man, wore the expression of warlike enterprise which long
afterward made him a distinguished general. Their personal friends
were recognized at a glance. In most of the pictures the whole mind
and character were brought out on the countenance and concentrated
into a single look; so that, to speak paradoxically, the originals
hardly resembled themselves so strikingly as the portraits did.

Among these modern worthies there were two old bearded saints who had
almost vanished into the darkening canvas. There was also a pale but
unfaded Madonna who had perhaps been worshipped in Rome, and now
regarded the lovers with such a mild and holy look that they longed to
worship too.

"How singular a thought," observed Walter Ludlow, "that this beautiful
face has been beautiful for above two hundred years! Oh, if all beauty
would endure so well! Do you not envy her, Elinor?"

"If earth were heaven, I might," she replied. "But, where all things
fade, how miserable to be the one that could not fade!"

"This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly scowl, saint though he
be," continued Walter; "he troubles me. But the Virgin looks kindly at
us."

"Yes, but very sorrowfully, methinks," said Elinor.

The easel stood beneath these three old pictures, sustaining one that
had been recently commenced. After a little inspection they began to
recognize the features of their own minister, the Rev. Dr. Colman,
growing into shape and life, as it were, out of a cloud.

"Kind old man!" exclaimed Elinor. "He gazes at me as if he were about
to utter a word of paternal advice."

"And at me," said Walter, "as if he were about to shake his head and
rebuke me for some suspected iniquity. But so does the original. I
shall never feel quite comfortable under his eye till we stand before
him to be married."

They now heard a footstep on the floor, and, turning, beheld the
painter, who had been some moments in the room and had listened to a
few of their remarks. He was a middle-aged man with a countenance well
worthy of his own pencil. Indeed, by the picturesque though careless
arrangement of his rich dress, and perhaps because his soul dwelt
always among painted shapes, he looked somewhat like a portrait
himself. His visitors were sensible of a kindred between the artist
and his works, and felt as if one of the pictures had stepped from the
canvas to salute them.

Walter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the painter, explained the
object of their visit. While he spoke a sunbeam was falling athwart
his figure and Elinor's with so happy an effect that they also seemed
living pictures of youth and beauty gladdened by bright fortune. The
artist was evidently struck.

"My easel is occupied for several ensuing days, and my stay in Boston
must be brief," said he, thoughtfully; then, after an observant
glance, he added, "But your wishes shall be gratified though I
disappoint the chief-justice and Madame Oliver. I must not lose this
opportunity for the sake of painting a few ells of broadcloth and
brocade."

The painter expressed a desire to introduce both their portraits into
one picture and represent them engaged in some appropriate action.
This plan would have delighted the lovers, but was necessarily
rejected because so large a space of canvas would have been unfit for
the room which it was intended to decorate. Two half-length portraits
were therefore fixed upon. After they had taken leave, Walter Ludlow
asked Elinor, with a smile, whether she knew what an influence over
their fates the painter was about to acquire.

"The old women of Boston affirm," continued he, "that after he has
once got possession of a person's face and figure he may paint him in
any act or situation whatever, and the picture will be prophetic. Do
you believe it?"

"Not quite," said Elinor, smiling. "Yet if he has such magic, there is
something so gentle in his manner that I am sure he will use it well."

It was the painter's choice to proceed with both the portraits at the
same time, assigning as a reason, in the mystical language which he
sometimes used, that the faces threw light upon each other.
Accordingly, he gave now a touch to Walter and now to Elinor, and the
features of one and the other began to start forth so vividly that it
appeared as if his triumphant art would actually disengage them from
the canvas. Amid the rich light and deep shade they beheld their
phantom selves, but, though the likeness promised to be perfect, they
were not quite satisfied with the expression: it seemed more vague
than in most of the painter's works. He, however, was satisfied with
the prospect of success, and, being much interested in the lovers,
employed his leisure moments, unknown to them, in making a crayon
sketch of their two figures. During their sittings he engaged them in
conversation and kindled up their faces with characteristic traits,
which, though continually varying, it was his purpose to combine and
fix. At length he announced that at their next visit both the
portraits would be ready for delivery.