Love and Art, A Leaf from the Past, and other stories

Front matter

THREE NEW NOVELS AT ALL LIBRARIES. RIVEN BONDS. By E. Werner, Author of " Success, and How He Won It," " Under a Charm," etc. Translated by Bertha Ness. 2 vols., 21s. (Now Ready. ) ' ' We would advise the reader, if he have any taste tor novel reading, to lose no time in making acquaintance with this charming book."— Court Circular. HEIR TO TWO FORTUNES. By the Author of " The Life of the Moselle." 3 vols., 31s. 6d. " It has dash, and go, and promise."— World. THROUGH THE BREAKERS. By the Rev. Richard Bulkeley, Vicar of St. John's, Dukenfield. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. " The Crimean episodes are treated with a good deal of spirit "- Athenæum. 1 REMINGTON & CO,, 5, ARUNDEL STREET, STRAND, W,C, LOVE AND AET, %, fEeaf from the flast, anb other Stories. BY SOPHIA HOUSON. " Art is much, but Love is more."

Barrett Browning. " It is a song that stays me. Sing no more. All sweet ! the song is o'er — The ocean hum is hushed, 'tis end of day, The long white foam fades saintly, The orange sunset dies into the gray Where star on star swims faintly. Hast thou not sung— and is not song enough? Hast thou not loved, and is not loving all ?" Bcchanan's Syren. |CflnIlstll : REMINGTON AND CO., 5, Arundel Street, Strand, W.C. 1878. (Al! rights reserved.) SLcvott ti)t Six i-Htmovtam. Hark ! across the frozen snow Come the bells of long ago ; Muffled bells of varied powers Charged with memories from the hours ; From the byegone hours that lie On the verge of earth and sky, Folded in the sunset's glow, Spirit forms of Long Ago. Sweeping o'er the frozen snow Voices come of long ago ; In the midnight chimes I hear Voices, still so dear, so dear, Lost to earth, or lost to me Beyond life, or beyond sea Softly lingering, sweet and slow, Coming o'er the frozen snow.

On the snow I lay immortelles, Crowns of Love that cannot die, And I hear thy voice of music In the still wind's gentle sigh, In the sound no sadness lingers, All is bathed in sunset glow, Radiant with a golden glory Shines thy smile across the snow. CONTENTS. PAGE LOVE AND ART ------ 1 A LEAF FROM THE PAST - - - - ' 74 A SORROWFUL REMINISCENCE - - - - 207 THE PRIZE POEM ----- 259 ONE CHRISTMAS EVE INTKODUCTION. Long, long ago, in the days when I dreamed roseate dreams in airy castles, I had an in tense desire to penetrate within the literary lines, to know something of the people who wrote books, of editors, publishers and all that magic circle, whose enchantment is per haps best preserved by distance. It is partly because of this old fancy that I desire to lift for a moment the curtain that falls between my readers and myself, and partly because I cannot send forth this, my second work, with out some tribute to the memory of the

Introduction

. VIII generous friend who helped the bringing out of my first — Miss E. B. Pigot, of Southwell, the lady who first persuaded Byron to publish, and to whom he addressed the lines : " Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, Who to woman deny the soul's future existence ; Could they know thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect, And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance." The lines spoke truth. Never have I met so intellectual and delightful a companion ; and the wonder of it was, that she lived almost apart from the world, ready, it is true, at all times to welcome her friends, but rarely going out. AU her early years were given to the care of an invalid mother, all her later ones. she lived alone. I had known her always, more or less, but when our friendship took form, she was an old lady and I a girl ; but from that time, whenever I was staying in that peculiar, picturesque old collegiate town, not a day passed but I opened her door

INTRODUCTION.

. IX and walked up to her delightful drawing-room unannounced. This habit I continued, so long as she lived, whenever I was at Southwell ; no matter how wide the interval of absence, I always found a welcome. Many a pilgrim to Byron's grave, or visitor to Newstead Abbey, turned out of their way and came to visit her ; among the most distinguished of these literati was Washington Irving. Among the enthusiasts whose verses and letters she preserved, a wild worshipper of Byron then, was John Burgon, a most eloquent preacher and stern high churchman of Oxford now. I subsequently brought him as a gift from Miss Pigot a cane that had once belonged to Lord Byron, and he gave me some verses expressive of a hope that his heart might remain ever young. Miss Pigot read my idle, girlish rhymes, and straightway declared me a " genius " — and was she not an authority, she who had discovered the greatest poet of the age ? Shades of the past rise round me, but what a—

INTRODUCTION.

. X could that fame, which I shall never achieve, bring me now, to rival the rapture of those days when, Miss Pigot having sent some lines I had addressed to him to Tom Moore, he acknowledged them warmly and kindly, and the county having started a magazine, my prose and poetry found a place in its pages. The sensation of first seeing one's self in print must be experienced to be under stood. I have long since worn that sensation out, yet found no niche in the temple of fame. What I wrote in that magazine I cannot now recall, but I remember a poet Ouseley, who afterwards attained some cele brity, addressed to me there some flattering lines of sad prophecy. I was scarcely eighteen then, and I was not much more when I wrote my first novel. Miss Pigot, whose faith in me never failed, but who believed to the end in her genius-behind-the-curtain, gave me an introduction to Murray, which I was pledged to present personally. I did so ; but as I had at least enough love of genius not to

INTRODUCTION.

. XI mistake a will-o'-the-wisp of verse for the " light from heaven " of poetry, I never plagued him beyond. I wrote a novel, how ever, in those early days, " The Gitana," in the publication of which my old friend Miss Pigot was greatly interested. The critics were very kind to me; the editor of the magazine of the season requested me to write a story for him, another asked for a poem, and this was the end for that time. I wrote another novel, but it was burnt by accident, and my literary ardour went out with its ashes. I have had my share of literary enjoyment, however, and especially in those early days. I recall that Christmas at Newstead Abbey when, in token of acknowledgment of the power that it was believed I possessed, and its recognition by Miss Pigot and others, Lord Byron's room was given to me when I stayed there. Eeader, picture those girlish dreams in the old tower. Not much remains of them now, but when Lord Russell wrote

INTRODUCTION.

. the Life of Moore, he found my lines, with a note of the poet's, and printed them ; but my name is not there — -Moore mistook the author's pedigree and name. Here the curtain falls, dear reader, between us, and rises on these stories, written in a later period at different times, all founded more or less on fact, and full of life and special interest for me ; that you will henceforth, in some degree share that interest, I venture to hope. I am quite conscious that there is in them but little genius or talent, that they have but small claim to any literary worth ; but if they serve to please you in some idle hours, and to interest you a little in the genius that never has found form or language, I shall be rewarded. LOYE AND ART

Part I

" Art is much, but love is more. Art symbolises Heaven, but love is God and makes Heaven. A.nd love strikes higher with his lambent flame, Than art can pile the faggots." Mrs. Barrett Browning. " There, Stella, keep that expression a little longer, and I shall achieve a triumph." These words were spoken by a young artist, who stood before his easel painting earnestly ; heart and soul were in his work ; you need only look into his face to see how strong* a passion possessed him, how deeply he loved his art. If the power prove equal to the aspiration, surely the future holds a wreath to crown him victor. The picture was Virginia just a moment before her sacrifice, and the artist was then putting the last touches to that fair pictured face. At the other end of the room, clinging to the lay figure, stood a girl, young and lovely and graceful.

Her attitude and the expres sion of her face were a remarkable embodi ment of physical sensitiveness and spiritual mastery : pure, innocent, and strong to meet her doom, her fearless eyes looked up to heaven ; yet you could feel that in the finely strung frame every nerve quivered to the descending knife. " There, Stella, that will do ; you can rest now." Without a word she sat down on a stool at the foot of the lay figure, where she re mained patiently watching the artist, who was again absorbed in his work. Any one who saw the two would have easily read the story of their lives : the painter loving his art above all — the girl uncon sciously loving the artist, and wasting her life in vain. Young and beautiful as she was, she was nothing to him beyond the selfish interest that linked her loveliness to his art.

He selected her for his model because she was young and beautiful, but the youth and beauty that inspired his imagination did not touch his heart. As yet, however, you could see she was content that it should be so ; her love was too pure and unselfish to murmur ; and, moreover, she had no human rival to stir her calm with jealous passion ; she was con tent to be his model and see him worship art, for so far she was incorporated with it. She had never asked, Do I love him ? or, Does he love me ? She wandered in love's own Eden still ; she had not tasted the apple and forfeited her Paradise for bitter barren know ledge. But while she sits there, waiting and watching, we will slightly sketch their past lives. 1—2 L^on Arnaud was the son of a poor gentlewoman, a widow, who had been left with scanty means to educate her child.

For some years she had struggled on painfully, almost hopelessly, for the boy had early shown great talent and a passionate desire to be an artist, and his mother shed many tears over the means of accomplishing his wish. Aid came, however, for when Leon was fourteen his mother received a letter from one who had been the lover of her youth, but from whom adverse circumstances had parted her. He wrote from abroad asking her to take charge of his only child, a daughter, and offering a yearly sum with the little girl that would be comparative wealth to the poor widow. The charge was gladly accepted, and the little Stella was taken home to a mother's heart, to have the outward signs of affection lavished on her that the proud self-engrossed son of the widow rejected. Stella became the darling of the widow, the privileged companion of her son.

Ldon Arnaud soon learned to appreciate, in his own way, the sympathy those earnest eyes expressed with his en thusiasm and ambition. He liked the sound of that fairy footstep in his hitherto silent studio, and soon discovered that for beauty and patience there was no model could equal Stella ; and she was satisfied to be his minis tering spirit — his model — his friend — to live for him ; and so we find them in the opening scene of our story. We left Stella resting in patient loving silence ; the minutes stole by, but she did not weary ; she never wearied in Lyon's studio — never wearied of watching the artist at his work, dreaming dreams for him of future fame and triumph, weaving imaginary crowns for her idol. Once he waved his hand, and then she rose and resumed her position, until again released.

At last he exclaimed : " It is finished, Stella ; come and look, and criticise. I have spent all the work I can upon it ; I can do no more. If I fail I will burn my canvas and brushes, and never paint again." "Yes," said Stella, "you will. True genius perseveres to victory, and your genius is true. I feel it, I know it ; and if this fail you will try again. But it cannot fail ; it is perfect." "I shall send it to-morrow, Stella." " And how soon shall you know after that whether it is the successful picture ?" " Not for a month — a whole month, Stella, of suspense, and then I trust a triumph — and Italy." " Do you desire to go to Italy so much, Leon ?" " Stella, it is my hope by day — my dream by night. Oh, Italy, Italy ! home of art and the beautiful ! my spirit pines for the hour when I shall stand on classic ground beneath Italian skies."

Stella sighed ; she could not speak what was in her heart ; she could not say, " You will leavpi na. L(ion," and thrust her tender human regrets between the artist and his art. " Thanks, Stella," he said, " for your patience. If successful, I shall owe half my triumph to you. Nothing can be more beautiful than your Virginia," he continued, looking, not at her, but at his picture. " The shrinking woman's nature shown in that clinging figure, the faith and fortitude in that sweet upturned face ; you have idealised my conception of Virginia. Alone in that crowd, she would have sunk and died of fear. Clinging to her father, to the strong arm of the strong man, she is not afraid. She will perish without a cry. Is it not so, Stella ?" " Yes ; I think I felt all that." Truly yes, as the artist said.

She had idealised his Virginia— almost made the part her own ; for was she not also clinging to the hand that would strike her to the heart, clinging in trust without fear, willing to die thus without a murmur ? " So, Stella, I shall owe you half the joy of my triumph. Shall you not be happy in my success ?" "Yes, very," she said, and her eyes ex pressed more than her words. She asked no more : to be so thanked by him — to aid in any way his success — was all that she had desired yet. " And now, Stella," he said, " go to my mother. I have kept you here too long to day. She will be wondering what has become of you. Tell her the picture is completed, and that I trust I have made a forward step in the pathway to fame. She must come to-night to look at the Virginia, for to-morrow it goes. Bring her with you when you come to fetch me to tea.

Adieu, petite sœur. A thousand thanks for your patience." " Leon," said Stella, entering the artist's studio with a lingering half-reluctant step — " L^on, it is late, and you have tasted nothing. Will you not have this coffee and roll before you leave ? Pray take it, Leon." During the month of suspense that had now reached its last day Stella had seldom crossed the threshold of the artist's room. He had no need of her, and scarcely knew how much he had neglected her. He looked up from his dreaming — " My Virginia," he said. " Leon, take what I have brought you, or you will be ill." " Stella, how pale you are ! What ails you, petite sœur?" The red blood flushed into her face, the rebel tell-tale blood. Ah ! she is awakening now. " Eat, Leon," she said, " or at least take the coffee." He took the cup and drank, but put the roll aside.

" I cannot eat," he said. " The ambition of my life trembles in the balance. Oh ! Rome, Rome." " Le"on, you desire it so much ?" " Stella, you cannot know how much ; you cannot imagine what it is to love art ; it is an all-absorbing worship, and Rome is its temple. If my picture should be successful — if I am chosen by the Academy to be sent to Rome— oh ! Stella, that will indeed be happiness." " You will win your wish, Lebn ; there will be no picture like yours ; it is perfect." " To your eyes ; but what will the judges say ? I have asked that question this morning of the silence until my brain seems bewil dered. What is the future bringing, Stella ? what is it bringing ?" " Victory, I hope, I believe !" said Stella, and her voice faltered a little, for victory to him brought separation ; " but Leon, dear Le"on, if your hopes are not realised, come home to be consoled," and she laid her hand softly on his arm.

" Consoled !" he echoed, almost fiercely. " There would be no consolation on earth for me. I have dreamed ; I could not bear dis appointment." He had taken no notice of that tender touch, and the hand was almost instantly withdrawn. His devotion to his art was an idolatry that left no room for human love. "Oh, Ldon," she said, after a pause, "your mother — whatever happens you must think of her, who feels doubly all you feel." " Poor mother," he said, " it would have been better had her son been different ; I fill my place but ill. Stella, she would be very sad and lonely without you." " And I," said Stella, " what should I be without you both ? I never can do enough to prove my gratitude and affection for la chere maman, for all the love she has given a motherless girl." " Stella, your father will be coming home soon and claim you ; what will my mother do then V " We must have one home ; we cannot separate, Leon."

The artist laughed, "A pleasant addition to your father's household 1 But it is time I went now. Adieu, my Virginia ! Stella," he continued, holding her hand, and looking in her face, " why are you so pale ? Petite sœur, what ails you V She tried to break from him ; but his grasp was firm, and his tone had more com mand than tenderness. " Tell me, Stella, are you ill V She did not answer — she could not ; the sense of her own great love for him, and his indifference to her, had grown palpable, and the momentary result was the desire to fly from him : the proud woman's heart rebelled against the contrast ; she dreaded lest he should read the truth, discover what had paled her cheek, so she strove to get away, and when she could not, burst into an uncon trollable passion of tears. He let her go, and looked somewhat puzzled for a moment — then passed his hand over that bowed head.

" Ah, Stella," he said, " I understand now ; you are anxious about the picture ; you fear for me — fear for my mother ; but when I come back victor, Stella, all will be well. Adieu, cherie," and he was gone. Stella raised her head, and listened to his retreating footsteps. " He does not know," she said, " he shall never know. My shadow must not fall be tween him and his art." She rose and moved about the studio, to and fro for some time, arranging with loving lingering hands the confusion her Genius ever created around him, and then went to seek Madame Arnaud. " You saw Le"on before he went ?" she asked the widow. " Yes, dear child ; he came to me for a few minutes, full of hope. Stella, I cannot help sometimes wishing he thought less of art and fame. If he fails, how he will suffer ! If he succeeds, he will leave us."

" Ah, cehre maman," said Stella, " but he will return and be famous." " But not satisfied, Stella ; he will still desire ; there will be no rest for him. It is the attribute of genius never to pause — its nature is to aspire. Trampling the human under foot in aspiration, Stella ; and what then ?" " It may be so," said Stella, " but perhaps high perfection could never be obtained without this concentration of thought and feeling." " Still it is sad, Stella ; all that is best and highest in life to be sacrificed, even to high art." " All that is best ?" echoed Stella. " Yes, child ; youth and love and home affections ; the artist usually has little room in his soul for these things, or he undervalues them and puts them aside. Stella, L^on re minds me of some genius I have read of, whose notions of high art developed them selves in making a peculiar kind of stoneware or china, and who burnt his furniture, and even the flooring of his house, to keep the fire kindled that was to perfect his work."

" You mean Palissy ; but surely you would not deny genius an existence, or wish the love of art to perish from the earth ?" " No, child ; but it is not less sad for the mothers and wives of genius." " Oh ! maman, they should be content to live in the shadow of the brightness ; happy in the success and elevation of thought of the dear ones." " Could you so live and love, Stella ?" and the widow looked into those earnest gleaming eyes. "Yes." " Brave, true heart and noble nature ; yes, I believe you could love thus, dear child. You think me unjust, ungenerous to him, who is more dear to me than life ; but I think it is a fallacy to say love is blind ; love is quick to see and feel ; and it grieves me to be conscious that Leon would let the chariot wheels that bear him onward crush, if they came in his way, those who should be dearest."

" Oh ! mother," cried Stella, " you wrong him ; he, so gentle, so gifted." "Ah ! my child." " So handsome, so tender." " Handsome, yes ; tender, no. It is his want of tenderness I mourn." " Oh ! maman, he who ever speaks softly." "Yes, child, but whose thoughts and actions take no form of loving care ; he would not hurt a worm wilfully, but if beneath his foot, he would not think to step aside. Alas ! that I, his mother, should say this : but then it is only to you, Stella, who love him like a sister, and it is of no use being blind to the truth." " Oh ! mother," cried Stella, kneeling on the low stool beside Madame Arnaud, " you wrong him ; indeed you do. Because he is great, noble, and gifted — with high aims, almost above our sympathy — shall we, who, womanlike, crave, not only for love, but its signs — shall we say he is less than we are, less able to feel as much, because he conceives and aspires to so much more ?

Oh ! mother do not shade his triumph to-day with such thoughts. Let us be glad with him, even while our weak hearts ache at the separation that triumph will bring." " My child," she said, " it is at all events very pleasant to my mother's heart to hear my son so warmly defended ; and yet " and she put back from the upturned face the clustering hair, and looked into those earnest, trustful eyes. There was the same expression in them that her artist son had caught and transfixed on the canvas in the Virginia. The elder lady sighed and kissed her * she read truly the martyr spirit in those sweet eyes — she would die in her trust. "I am going to make a gran d toilet this evening, and you must do the same, to greet our victor." " Child, suppose he fails ?" " He will not. I feel he will succeed ; he will go to Rome."

Some hours afterwards Stella stood at the window watching, looking so lovely in her soft white muslin dress, her hair gathered in a thin golden net, that gleamed upon, but did not hide, its luxuriant beauty. "He is victor!" cried Stella. "He is victor ! he waves his hand to me ; his face is all alight with joy ; he is happy — how happy ! Come and smile upon him." Yes, it was so ; the picture had been successful beyond even the artist's hopes. The approval of the judges had been un qualified ; there had been no dissentient voice. The Virginia had hung in the gallery, eclipsing every other picture, and admiring crowds had passed before it, to praise, and prophesy the painter's future fame. L^on Arnaud had achieved his passionate desire ; he had been triumphant ; he was to go to Rome.

Part II

Two years have passed away, and we find Stella at home, a queen in her father's chateau ; but the same earnest loving spirit still, rejoicing in her prosperity for the sake of others rather than her own. She is lovelier than ever as she wanders this early morning to and fro on the broad terrace gathering flowers. She is somewhat fanciful in her collection, rejecting many, and carefully examining all she accepts. " I will have none with a shadow of fading," she says, " or blight upon them ; it would be 2—2 a bad omen ; neither will I gather any from the conservatory ; they shall be sun-grown flowers. Oh, Le"on ! L^on !" Another step is on the gravel beside her, and a noble old soldier takes her fondly in his arms. " My fairy queen," said the old man, " you are early this morning." " It is so bright, so sunny," said Stella ; " and, father, Leon comes to-day.

These flowers are for his studio. Come and see what a perfect artist's room I have made it." Colonel Desparre, smiling upon his petted child, followed her to the chamber she had been so happy in fitting up for the wanderer, and, sitting down on one of the luxurious couches, watched her arranging the flowers. " There !" she exclaimed, when all was done, " is it not a pretty -room, and has it not a look of welcome and home about it ? I have often pictured Le'on, mon pere, during the two past years, painting in a miserable garret at the top of some old house in Rome ; for you know he is not rich ; the sum allowed him was very small ; and he, who had never thought for himself, how could he use it for the best ? Ah, I know how it has been ; he sat painting, painting, until he was quite exhausted, and then a httle bread and wine would be all he would take ; it was so when he was at home, only then I used to go to him and make him either eat in his studio or come and join us."

" Leon is a great favourite of yours, Stella?" asked Colonel Desparre. Stella coloured, but she raised her beautiful eyes to the questioner and answered — " He was all to me — my brother, friend, companion — for six years, father." " Were you, then, so much together ? I thought Leon was engrossed by his art." " Yes, so he was ; so he is ; so he will ever be ; but I was with him constantly, mixing his paints, arranging his studio, and standing for his pictures. We were very happy to gether." " And while you did so much for him, what did he do for you, Stella ?" " For me ? Oh, father, he is a genius r he made me love art : he taught me to think." " And for all the love you gave, the warm affection you felt for him, did he return you nothing ? Did he love you also, Stella ?" "I do not know- — I think so ; we had been so much together.

His heart was in the painting ; but he was very kind to me, and always called me petite sœur." Colonel Desparre smiled. Clearly the artist had not taken any unfair advantage of his absence, and the trust reposed in him, and he was well pleased that it should be so. He scarcely noticed that the rose Stella had held when he began his questioning was lying in shreds at her feet ; he fancied Stella's love was unacknowledged yet to herself; he was glad that she should love the widow's son, having long wished that she should be Lyon's wife, and it never flashed across his mind that Lfion might be indifferent to his beautiful child. On the evening of that day Stella led L^on in triumph to the studio. " There, Leon !" she said, " can you be happy there ?" It is beautiful, Stella ; too beautiful for me, " But you are an artist, and love the beautiful."