to think that there she is in the market to be knocked down to--I say, I
was going to call that three-year-old, Ethelinda.--We must christen her
over again for Tattersall's, Georgy."
A knock is heard through an adjoining door, and a maternal voice cries,
"It is time to go to bed." So the brothers part, and, let us hope, sleep
soundly.
The Countess of Kew, meanwhile, has returned to Baden; where, though it
is midnight when she arrives, and the old lady has had two long bootless
journeys, you will be grieved to hear, that she does not sleep a single
wink. In the morning she hobbles over to the Newcome quarters; and Ethel
comes down to her pale and calm. How is her father? He has had a good
night: he is a little better, speaks more clearly, has a little more the
use of his limbs.
"I wish I had had a good night!" groans out the Countess.
"I thought you were going to Lord Kew, at Kehl," remarked her
granddaughter.
"I did go, and returned with wretches who would not bring me more than
five miles an hour! I dismissed that brutal grinning courier; and I have
given warning to that fiend of a maid."
"And Frank is pretty well, grandmamma?"
"Well! He looks as pink as a girl in her first season! I found him, and
his brother George, and their mamma. I think Maria was hearing them their
catechism," cries the old lady.
"N. and M. together! Very pretty," says Ethel, gravely. "George has
always been a good boy, and it is quite time for my Lord Kew to begin."
The elder lady looked at her descendant, but Miss Ethel's glance was
impenetrable. "I suppose you can fancy, my dear, why I came back?" said
Lady Kew.
"Because you quarrelled with Lady Walham, grandmamma. I think I have
heard that there used to be differences between you." Miss Newcome was
armed for defence and attack; in which cases we have said Lady Kew did
not care to assault her. "My grandson told me that he had written to
you," the Countess said.
"Yes: and had you waited but half an hour yesterday, you might have
spared me the humiliation of that journey."
"You--the humiliation--Ethel!"
"Yes, me," Ethel flashed out. "Do you suppose it is none to have me
bandied about from bidder to bidder, and offered for sale to a gentleman
who will not buy me? Why have you and all my family been so eager to get
rid of me? Why should you suppose or desire that Lord Kew should like me?
Hasn't he the Opera; and such friends as Madame la Duchesse d'Ivry, to
whom your ladyship introduced him in early life? He told me so: and she
was good enough to inform me of the rest. What attractions have I in
comparison with such women? And to this man from whom I am parted by good
fortune; to this man who writes to remind me that we are separated--your
ladyship must absolutely go and entreat him to give me another trial! It
is too much, grandmamma. Do please to let me stay where I am; and worry
me with no more schemes for my establishment in life. Be contented with
the happiness which you have secured for Clara Pulleyn and Barnes; and
leave me to take care of my poor father. Here I know I am doing right.
Here, at least, there is no such sorrow, and doubt, and shame, for me, as
my friends have tried to make me endure. There is my father's bell. He
likes me to be with him at breakfast and to read his paper to him."
"Stay a little, Ethel," cried the Countess, with a trembling voice. "I am
older than your father, and you owe me a little obedience--that is, if
children do owe any obedience to their parents nowadays. I don't know. I
am an old woman--the world perhaps has changed since my time; and it is
you who ought to command, I dare say, and we to follow. Perhaps I have
been wrong all through life, and in trying to teach my children to do as
I was made to do. God knows I have had very little comfort from them:
whether they did or whether they didn't. You and Frank I had set my heart
on; I loved you out of all my grandchildren--was it very unnatural that I
should wish to see you together? For that boy I have been saving money
these years past. He flies back to the arms of his mother, who has been
pleased to hate me as only such virtuous people can; who took away my own
son from me; and now his son--towards whom the only fault I ever
committed was to spoil him and be too fond of him. Don't leave me too, my
child. Let me have something that I can like at my years. And I like your
pride, Ethel, and your beauty, my dear; and I am not angry with your hard
words; and if I wish to see you in the place in life which becomes you--
do I do wrong? No. Silly girl! There--give me the little hand. How hot it
is! Mine is as cold as a stone--and shakes, doesn't it?--Eh! it was a
pretty hand once! What did Anne--what did your mother say to Frank's
letter.
"I did not show it to her," Ethel answered.
"Let me see it, my dear," whispered Lady Kew, in a coaxing way.
"There it is," said Ethel pointing to the fireplace, where there lay some
torn fragments and ashes of paper. It was the same fireplace at which
Clive's sketches had been burned.
CHAPTER XXXIX
Amongst the Painters
When Clive Newcome comes to be old, no doubt he will remember his Roman
days as amongst the happiest which fate ever awarded him. The simplicity
of the student's life there, the greatness and friendly splendour of the
scenes surrounding him, the delightful nature of the occupation in which
he is engaged, the pleasant company of comrades, inspired by a like
pleasure over a similar calling, the labour, the meditation, the holiday
and the kindly feast afterwards, should make the Art-students the
happiest of youth, did they but know their good fortune. Their work is
for the most part delightfully easy. It does not exercise the brain too
much, but gently occupies it, and with a subject most agreeable to the
scholar. The mere poetic flame, or jet of invention, needs to be lighted
up but very seldom, namely, when the young painter is devising his
subject, or settling the composition thereof. The posing of figures and
drapery; the dexterous copying of the line; the artful processes of
cross-hatching, of stumping, of laying on lights, and what not; the
arrangement of colour, and the pleasing operations of glazing and the
like, are labours for the most part merely manual. These, with the
smoking of a proper number of pipes, carry the student through his day's
work. If you pass his door you will very probably hear him singing at his
easel. I should like to know what young lawyer, mathematician, or
divinity scholar can sing over his volumes, and at the same time advance
with his labour? In every city where Art is practised there are old
gentlemen who never touched a pencil in their lives, but find the
occupation and company of artists so agreeable that they are never out of
the studios; follow one generation of painters after another; sit by with
perfect contentment while Jack is drawing his pifferaro, or Tom designing
his cartoon, and years afterwards when Jack is established in Newman
Street, and Tom a Royal Academician, shall still be found in their rooms,
occupied now by fresh painters and pictures, telling the youngsters,
their successors, what glorious fellows Jack and Tom were. A poet must
retire to privy places and meditate his rhymes in secret; a painter can
practise his trade in the company of friends. Your splendid chef d'ecole,
a Rubens or a Horace Vernet, may sit with a secretary reading to him; a
troop of admiring scholars watching the master's hand; or a company of
court ladies and gentlemen (to whom he addresses a few kind words now and
again) looking on admiringly; whilst the humblest painter, be he ever so
poor, may have a friend watching at his easel, or a gentle wife sitting
by with her work in her lap, and with fond smiles or talk or silence
cheering his labour.
Amongst all ranks and degrees of painters assembled at Rome, Mr. Clive
found companions and friends. The cleverest man was not the best artist
very often: the ablest artist not the best critic nor the best companion.
Many a man could give no account of the faculty within him, but achieved
success because he could not help it; and did, in an hour and without
effort, that which another could not effect with half a life's labour.
There were young sculptors who had never read a line of Homer, who took
on themselves nevertheless to interpret and continue the heroic Greek
art. There were young painters with the strongest natural taste for low
humour, comic singing, and Cyder-Cellar jollifications, who would imitate
nothing under Michael Angelo, and whose canvases teemed with tremendous
allegories of fates, furies, genii of death and battle. There were
long-haired lads who fancied the sublime lay in the Peruginesque manner,
and depicted saintly personages with crisp draperies, crude colours, and
haloes of gold-leaf. Our friend marked all these practitioners of Art
with their various oddities and tastes, and was welcomed in the ateliers
of all of them, from the grave dons and seniors, the senators of the
French and English Academy, down to the jovial students who railed at the
elders over their cheap cups at the Lepre. What a gallant, starving,
generous, kindly life, many of them led! What fun in their grotesque
airs, what friendship and gentleness in their poverty! How splendidly
Carlo talked of the marquis his cousin, and the duke his intimate friend!
How great Federigo was on the subject of his wrongs, from the Academy at
home, a pack of tradesmen who could not understand high art, and who had
never seen a good picture! With what haughtiness Augusto swaggered about
at Sir John's soirees, though he was known to have borrowed Fernando's
coat, and Luigi's dress-boots! If one or the other was ill, how nobly and
generously his companions flocked to comfort him, took turns to nurse the
sick man through nights of fever, contributed out of their slender means
to help him through his difficulty. Max, who loves fine dresses and the
carnival so, gave up a costume and a carriage so as to help Paul, when he
sold his picture (through the agency of Pietro, with whom he had
quarrelled, and who recommended him to a patron), gave a third of the
money back to Max, and took another third portion to Lazaro, with his
poor wife and children, who had not got a single order all that winter--
and so the story went on. I have heard Clive tell of two noble young
Americans who came to Europe to study their art; of whom the one fell
sick, whilst the other supported his penniless comrade, and out of
sixpence a day absolutely kept but a penny for himself, giving the rest
to his sick companion. "I should like to have known that good Samaritan,
Sir," our Colonel said, twirling his mustachios, when we saw him again,
and his son told him that story.
J. J., in his steady silent way, worked on every day, and for many hours
every day. When Clive entered their studio of a morning, he found J. J.
there, and there he left him. When the Life Academy was over, at night,
and Clive went out to his soirees, J. J. lighted his lamp and continued
his happy labour. He did not care for the brawling supper-parties of his
comrades; liked better to stay at home than to go into the world, and was
seldom abroad of a night except during the illness of Luigi before
mentioned, when J. J. spent constant evenings at the other's bedside.
J. J. was fortunate as well as skilful: people in the world took a liking
to the modest young man, and he had more than one order for pictures. The
Artists' Club, at the Lepre, set him down as close with his money; but a
year after he left Rome, Lazaro and his wife, who still remained there,
told a different tale. Clive Newcome, when he heard of their distress,
gave them something--as much as he could spare; but J. J. gave more, and
Clive was as eager in acknowledging and admiring his friend's generosity
as he was in speaking of his genius. His was a fortunate organisation
indeed. Study was his chief amusement. Self-denial came easily to him.
Pleasure, or what is generally called so, had little charm for him. His
ordinary companions were pure and sweet thoughts; his out-door enjoyment
the contemplation of natural beauty; for recreation, the hundred pleasant
dexterities and manipulations of his craft were ceaselessly interesting
to him: he would draw every knot in an oak panel, or every leaf in an
orange-tree, smiling, and taking a gay delight over the simple feats of
skill: whenever you found him he seemed watchful and serene, his modest
virgin-lamp always lighted and trim. No gusts of passion extinguished it;
no hopeless wandering in the darkness afterwards led him astray.
Wayfarers through the world, we meet now and again with such purity; and
salute it, and hush whilst it passes on.
We have it under Clive Newcome's own signature, that he intended to pass
a couple of years in Italy, devoting himself exclusively to the study of
his profession. Other besides professional reasons were working secretly
in the young man's mind, causing him to think that absence from England
was the best cure for a malady under which he secretly laboured. But
change of air may cure some sick people more speedily than the sufferers
ever hoped; and also it is on record, that young men with the very best
intentions respecting study, do not fulfil them, and are led away from
their scheme by accident, or pleasure, or necessity, or some good cause.
Young Clive worked sedulously two or three months at his vocation at
Rome, secretly devouring, no doubt, the pangs of sentimental
disappointment under which he laboured; and he drew from his models, and
he sketched round about everything that suited his pencil on both sides
of Tiber; and he laboured at the Life Academy of nights--a model himself
to other young students. The symptoms of his sentimental malady began to
abate. He took an interest in the affairs of Jack, and Tom, and Harry
round about him: Art exercised its great healing influence on his wounded
spirit, which to be sure had never given in. The meeting of the painters
at the Cafe Greco, and at their private ho
uses, was very jovial,
pleasant, and lively. Clive smoked his pipe, drank his glass of Marsala,
sang his song, and took part in the general chorus as gaily as the
jolliest of the boys. He was the cock of the whole painting school, the
favourite of all; and to be liked by the people, you may be pretty sure
that we for our parts must like them.
Then, besides the painters, he had, as he has informed us, the other
society of Rome. Every winter there is a gay and pleasant English colony
in that capital, of course more or less remarkable for rank, fashion, and
agreeability with every varying year. In Clive's year some very pleasant
folks set up their winter quarters in the usual foreigners' resort round
about the Piazza di Spagna. I was amused to find, lately, looking over
the travels of the respectable M. de Poellnitz, that, a hundred and
twenty years ago, the same quarter, the same streets and palaces, scarce
changed from those days, were even then polite foreigners' resort. Of one
or two of the gentlemen Clive had made the acquaintance in the
hunting-field; others he had met during his brief appearance in the
London world. Being a youth of great personal agility, fitted thereby to
the graceful performance of polkas, etc.; having good manners, and good
looks, and good credit with Prince Poloni, or some other banker, Mr.
Newcome was thus made very welcome to the Anglo-Roman society; and as
kindly received in genteel houses, where they drank tea and danced the
galop, as in those dusky taverns and retired lodgings where his bearded
comrades, the painters held their meetings.
Thrown together every day, and night after night; flocking to the same
picture-galleries, statue-galleries, Pincian drives, and church
functions, the English colonists at Rome perforce became intimate, and in
many cases friendly. They have an English library where the various meets
for the week are placarded: on such a day the Vatican galleries are open:
the next is the feast of Saint So-and-so: on Wednesday there will be
music and vespers at the Sistine Chapel--on Thursday, the Pope will bless
the animals--sheep, horses, and what-not: and flocks of English
accordingly rush to witness the benediction of droves of donkeys. In a
word, the ancient city of the Caesars, the august fanes of the Popes,
with their splendour and ceremony, are all mapped out and arranged for
English diversion; and we run in a crowd to high mass at St. Peter's, or
to the illumination on Easter Day, as we run when the bell rings to the
Bosjesmen at Cremorne, or the fireworks at Vauxhall.
Running to see fireworks alone, rushing off to examine Bosjesmen by one's
self, is a dreary work: I should think very few men would have the
courage to do it unattended, and personally would not prefer a pipe in
their own rooms. Hence if Clive went to see all these sights, as he did,
it is to be concluded that he went in company; and if he went in company
and sought it, we may suppose that little affair which annoyed him at
Baden no longer tended to hurt his peace of mind very seriously. The
truth is, our countrymen are pleasanter abroad than at home; most
hospitable, kindly, and eager to be pleased and to please. You see a
family half a dozen times in a week in the little Roman circle, whom you
shall not meet twice in a season afterwards in the enormous London round.
When Easter is over and everybody is going away at Rome, you and your
neighbour shake hands, sincerely sorry to part: in London we are obliged
to dilute our kindness so that there is hardly any smack of the original
milk. As one by one the pleasant families dropped off with whom Clive had
spent his happy winter; as Admiral Freeman's carriage drove away, whose
pretty girls he had caught at St. Peter's kissing St. Peter's toe; as
Dick Denby's family ark appeared with all Denby's sweet young children
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