Twice Told Tales

  THE PROPHETIC PICTURES.[1]

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

  [Footnote 1: This story was suggested by an anecdote of Stuart relatedin Dunlap's _History of the Arts of Designs_--a most entertainingbook to the general reader, and a deeply-interesting one, we shouldthink, to the artist.]

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

  "Surely it is," replied her lover, "but far less so than his naturalgift of adapting himself to every variety of character, insomuch thatall men--and all women too, Elinor--shall find a mirror of themselvesin 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 youtelling me of a painter, or a wizard?"

  "In truth," answered he, "that question might be asked much moreseriously than you suppose. They say that he paints not merely a man'sfeatures, but his mind and heart. He catches the secret sentiments andpassions and throws them upon the canvas like sunshine, or perhaps, inthe portraits of dark-souled men, like a gleam of infernal fire. It isan awful gift," added Walter, lowering his voice from its tone ofenthusiasm. "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 lookwhich you now wear," said her lover, smiling, though rather perplexed."There! it is passing away now; but when you spoke, you seemedfrightened to death, and very sad besides. What were you thinking of?"

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

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

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

  The painter of whom they had been speaking was not one of those nativeartists who at a later period than this borrowed their colors from theIndians and manufactured their pencils of the furs of wild beasts.Perhaps, if he could have revoked his life and prearranged hisdestiny, he might have chosen to belong to that school without amaster in the hope of being at least original, since there were noworks of art to imitate nor rules to follow. But he had been born andeducated in Europe. People said that he had studied the grandeur orbeauty of conception and every touch of the master-hand in all themost famous pictures in cabinets and galleries and on the walls ofchurches 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 brethrenhad preceded him, to feast his eyes on visible images that were nobleand picturesque, yet had never been transferred to canvas. America wastoo poor to afford other temptations to an artist of eminence, thoughmany of the colonial gentry on the painter's arrival had expressed awish to transmit their lineaments to posterity by moans of his skill.Whenever such proposals were made, he fixed his piercing eyes on theapplicant and seemed to look him through and through. If he beheldonly a sleek and comfortable visage, though there were a gold-lacedcoat to adorn the picture and golden guineas to pay for it, he civillyrejected the task and the reward; but if the face were the index ofanything uncommon in thought, sentiment or experience, or if he met abeggar in the street with a white beard and a furrowed brow, or ifsometimes a child happened to look up and smile, he would exhaust allthe art on them that he denied to wealth.

  Pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the painter became anobject of general curiosity. If few or none could appreciate thetechnical merit of his productions, yet there were points in regard towhich the opinion of the crowd was as valuable as the refined judgmentof the amateur. He watched the effect that each picture produced onsuch untutored beholders, and derived profit from their remarks, whilethey would as soon have thought of instructing Nature herself as himwho seemed to rival her. Their admiration, it must be owned, wastinctured with the prejudices of the age and country. Some deemed itan offence against the Mosaic law, and even a presumptuous mockery ofthe Creator, to bring into existence such lively images of hiscreatures. Others, frightened at the art which could raise phantoms atwill and keep the form of the dead among the living, were inclined toconsider the painter as a magician, or perhaps the famous Black Man ofold witch-times plotting mischief in a new guise. These foolishfancies were more, than half believed among the mob. Even in superiorcircles his character was invested with a vague awe, partly risinglike smoke-wreaths from the popular superstitions, but chiefly causedby the varied knowledge and talents which he made subservient to hisprofession.

  Being on the eve of marriage, Walter Ludlow and Elinor were eager toobtain their portraits as the first of what, they doubtless hoped,would be a long series of family pictures. The day after theconversation above recorded they visited the painter's rooms. Aservant ushered them into an apartment where, though the artisthimself was not visible, there were personages whom they could hardlyforbear greeting with reverence. They knew, indeed, that the wholeassembly were but pictures, yet felt it impossible to separate theidea of life and intellect from such striking counterfeits. Several ofthe portraits were known to them either as distinguished characters ofthe day or their private acquaintances. There was Governor Burnett,looking as if he had just received an undutiful communication from theHouse of Representatives and were inditing a most sharp response. Mr.Cooke hung beside the ruler whom he opposed, sturdy and somewhatpuritanical, as befitted a popular leader. The ancient lady of SirWilliam Phipps eyed them from the wall in ruff and farthingale, animperious old dame not unsuspected of witchcraft. John Winslow, then avery young man, wore the expression of warlike enterprise which longafterward made him a distinguished general. Their personal friendswere recognized at a glance. In most of the pictures the whole mindand character were brought out on the countenance and concentratedinto a single look; so that, to speak paradoxically, the originalshardly resembled themselves so strikingly as the portraits did.

  Among these modern worthies there were two old bearded saints who hadalmost vanished into the darkening canvas. There was also a pale butunfaded Madonna who had perhaps been worshipped in Rome, and nowregarded the lovers with such a mild and holy look that they longed toworship too.

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

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

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

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

  The easel stood beneath these three old pictures, sustaining one thathad been recently commenced. After a little inspection they began torecognize 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 aboutto utter a word of paternal advice."

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

  They now heard a footstep on the floor, and, turning, beheld thepainter, who had been some moments in the room and had listened to afew of their remarks. He was a middle-aged man with a countenance wellworthy of his own pencil. Indeed, by the picturesque though carelessarrangement of his rich dress, and perhaps because his soul dweltalways among painted shapes, he looked somewhat like a portraithimself. His visitors were sensible of a kindred between the artistand his works, and felt as if one of the pictures had stepped from thecanvas to salute them.

  Walter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the painter, explained theobject of their visit. While he spoke a sunbeam was falling athwarthis figure and Elinor's with so happy an effect that they also seemedliving pictures of youth and beauty gladdened by bright fortune. Theartist was evidently struck.

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

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

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

  "Not quite," said Elinor, smiling. "Yet if he has such magic, there issomething 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 thesame time, assigning as a reason, in the mystical language which hesometimes used, that the faces threw light upon each other.Accordingly, he gave now a touch to Walter and now to Elinor, and thefeatures of one and the other began to start forth so vividly that itappeared as if his triumphant art would actually disengage them fromthe canvas. Amid the rich light and deep shade they beheld theirphantom selves, but, though the likeness promised to be perfect, theywere not quite satisfied with the expression: it seemed more vaguethan in most of the painter's works. He, however, was satisfied withthe prospect of success, and, being much interested in the lovers,employed his leisure moments, unknown to them, in making a crayonsketch of their two figures. During their sittings he engaged them inconversation and kindled up their faces with characteristic traits,which, though continually varying, it was his purpose to combine andfix. At length he announced that at their next visit both theportraits would be ready for delivery.

  "If my pencil will but be true to my conception in the few lasttouches which I meditate," observed he, "these two pictures will be myvery best performances. Seldom indeed has an artist such subjects."While speaking he still bent his penetrative eye upon them, norwithdrew it till they had reached the bottom of the stairs.

  Nothing in the whole circle of human vanities takes stronger hold ofthe imagination than this affair of having a portrait painted. Yet whyshould it be so? The looking-glass, the polished globes of theandirons, the mirror-like water, and all other reflecting surfaces,continually present us with portraits--or, rather, ghosts--ofourselves which we glance at and straightway forget them. But weforget them only because they vanish. It is the idea of duration--ofearthly immortality--that gives such a mysterious interest to our ownportraits.

  Walter and Elinor were not insensible to this feeling, and hastened tothe painter's room punctually at the appointed hour to meet thosepictured shapes which were to be their representatives with posterity.The sunshine flashed after them into the apartment, but left itsomewhat gloomy as they closed the door. Their eyes were immediatelyattracted to their portraits, which rested against the farthest wallof the room. At the first glance through the dim light and thedistance, seeing themselves in precisely their natural attitudes andwith all the air that they recognized so well, they uttered asimultaneous exclamation of delight.

  "There we stand," cried Walter, enthusiastically, "fixed in sunshinefor ever. No dark passions can gather on our faces."

  "No," said Elinor, more calmly; "no dreary change can sadden us."

  This was said while they were approaching and had yet gained only animperfect view of the pictures. The painter, after saluting them,busied himself at a table in completing a crayon sketch, leaving hisvisitors to form their own judgment as to his perfected labors. Atintervals he sent a glance from beneath his deep eyebrows, watchingtheir countenances in profile with his pencil suspended over thesketch. They had now stood some moments, each in front of the other'spicture, contemplating it with entranced attention, but withoututtering a word. At length Walter stepped forward, then back, viewingElinor's portrait in various lights, and finally spoke.

  "Is there not a change?" said he, in a doubtful and meditative tone."Yes; the perception of it grows more vivid the longer I look. It iscertainly the same picture that I saw yesterday; the dress, thefeatures, all are the same, and yet something is altered."

  "Is, then, the picture less like than it was yesterday?" inquired thepainter, now drawing near with irrepressible interest.

  "The features are perfect Elinor," answered Walter, "and at the firstglance the expression seemed also hers; but I could fancy that theportrait has changed countenance while I have been looking at it. Theeyes are fixed on mine with a strangely sad and anxious expression.Nay, it is grief and terror. Is this like Elinor?"

  "Compare the living face with the pictured one," said the painter.

  Walter glanced sidelong at his mistress, and started. Motionless andabsorbed, fascinated, as it were, in contemplation of Walter'sportrait, Elinor's face had assumed precisely the expression of whichhe had just been complaining. Had she practised for whole hours beforea mirror, she could not have caught the look so successfully. Had thepicture itself been a mirror, it could not have thrown back herpresent aspect with stronger and more melancholy truth. She appearedquite unconscious of the dialogue between the artist and her lover.

  "Elinor," exclaimed Walter, in amazement, "what change has come overyou?"

  She did not hear him nor desist from her fixed gaze till he seized herhand, and thus attracted her notice; then with a sudden tremor shelooked from the picture to the face of the original.

  "Do you see no change in your portrait?" asked she.

  "In mine? None," replied Walter, examining it. "But let me see. Yes;there is a slight change--an improvement, I think, in the picture,though none in the likeness. It has a livelier expression thanyesterday, as if some bright thought were flashing from the eyes andabout to be uttered from the lips. Now that I have caught the look, itbecomes very decided."

  While he was intent on these observations Elinor turned to thepainter. She regarded him with grief and awe, and felt that he repaidher with sympathy and commiseration, though wherefore she could butvaguely guess.

  "That look!" whispered she, and shuddered. "How came it there?"

  "Madam," said the painter, sadly, taking her hand and leading herapart, "in both these pictures I have painted what I saw. Theartist--the true artist--must look beneath the exterior. It is hisgift--his proudest, but often a melancholy one--to see the inmostsoul, and by a power i
ndefinable even to himself to make it glow ordarken upon the canvas in glances that express the thought andsentiment of years. Would that I might convince myself of error in thepresent instance!"

  They had now approached the table, on which were heads in chalk, handsalmost as expressive as ordinary faces, ivied church-towers, thatchedcottages, old thunder-stricken trees, Oriental and antique costume,and all such picturesque vagaries of an artist's idle moments. Turningthem over with seeming carelessness, a crayon sketch of two figureswas disclosed.

  "If I have failed," continued he--"if your heart does not see itselfreflected in your own portrait, if you have no secret cause to trustmy delineation of the other--it is not yet too late to alter them. Imight change the action of these figures too. But would it influencethe event?" He directed her notice to the sketch.

  A thrill ran through Elinor's frame; a shriek was upon her lips, butshe stifled it with the self-command that becomes habitual to all whohide thoughts of fear and anguish within their bosoms. Turning fromthe table, she perceived that Walter had advanced near enough to haveseen the sketch, though she could not determine whether it had caughthis eye.

  "We will not have the pictures altered," said she, hastily. "If mineis sad, I shall but look the gayer for the contrast."

  "Be it so," answered the painter, bowing. "May your griefs be suchfanciful ones that only your pictures may mourn for them! For yourjoys, may they be true and deep, and paint themselves upon this lovelyface till it quite belie my art!"

  After the marriage of Walter and Elinor the pictures formed the twomost splendid ornaments of their abode. They hung side by side,separated by a narrow panel, appearing to eye each other constantly,yet always returning the gaze of the spectator. Travelled gentlemenwho professed a knowledge of such subjects reckoned these among themost admirable specimens of modern portraiture, while common observerscompared them with the originals, feature by feature, and wererapturous in praise of the likeness. But it was on a thirdclass--neither travelled connoisseurs nor common observers, but peopleof natural sensibility--that the pictures wrought their strongesteffect. Such persons might gaze carelessly at first, but, becominginterested, would return day after day and study these painted faceslike the pages of a mystic volume. Walter Ludlow's portrait attractedtheir earliest notice. In the absence of himself and his bride theysometimes disputed as to the expression which the painter had intendedto throw upon the features, all agreeing that there was a look ofearnest import, though no two explained it alike. There was lessdiversity of opinion in regard to Elinor's picture. They differed,indeed, in their attempts to estimate the nature and depth of thegloom that dwelt upon her face, but agreed that it was gloom and alienfrom the natural temperament of their youthful friend. A certainfanciful person announced as the result of much scrutiny that boththese pictures were parts of one design, and that the melancholystrength of feeling in Elinor's countenance bore reference to the morevivid emotion--or, as he termed it, the wild passion--in that ofWalter. Though unskilled in the art, he even began a sketch in whichthe action of the two figures was to correspond with their mutualexpression.

  It was whispered among friends that day by day Elinor's face wasassuming a deeper shade of pensiveness which threatened soon to renderher too true a counterpart of her melancholy picture. Walter, on theother hand, instead of acquiring the vivid look which the painter hadgiven him on the canvas, became reserved and downcast, with no outwardflashes of emotion, however it might be smouldering within. In courseof time Elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of purple silk wrought withflowers and fringed with heavy golden tassels before the pictures,under pretence that the dust would tarnish their hues or the light dimthem. It was enough. Her visitors felt that the massive folds of thesilk must never be withdrawn nor the portraits mentioned in herpresence.

  Time wore on, and the painter came again. He had been far enough tothe north to see the silver cascade of the Crystal Hills, and to lookover the vast round of cloud and forest from the summit of NewEngland's loftiest mountain. But he did not profane that scene by themockery of his art. He had also lain in a canoe on the bosom of LakeGeorge, making his soul the mirror of its loveliness and grandeur tillnot a picture in the Vatican was more vivid than his recollection. Hehad gone with the Indian hunters to Niagara, and there, again, hadflung his hopeless pencil down the precipice, feeling that he could assoon paint the roar as aught else that goes to make up the wondrouscataract. In truth, it was seldom his impulse to copy natural sceneryexcept as a framework for the delineations of the human form and faceinstinct with thought, passion or suffering. With store of such hisadventurous ramble had enriched him. The stern dignity of Indianchiefs, the dusky loveliness of Indian girls, the domestic life ofwigwams, the stealthy march, the battle beneath gloomy pine trees, thefrontier fortress with its garrison, the anomaly of the old Frenchpartisan bred in courts, but grown gray in shaggy deserts,--such werethe scenes and portraits that he had sketched. The glow of perilousmoments, flashes of wild feeling, struggles of fierce power, love,hate, grief, frenzy--in a word, all the worn-out heart of the oldearth--had been revealed to him under a new form. His portfolio wasfilled with graphic illustrations of the volume of his memory whichgenius would transmute into its own substance and imbue withimmortality. He felt that the deep wisdom in his art which he hadsought so far was found.

  But amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils of the forest or itsoverwhelming peacefulness, still there had been two phantoms, thecompanions of his way. Like all other men around whom an engrossingpurpose wreathes itself, he was insulated from the mass of humankind.He had no aim, no pleasure, no sympathies, but what were ultimatelyconnected with his art. Though gentle in manner and upright in intentand action, he did not possess kindly feelings; his heart was cold: noliving creature could be brought near enough to keep him warm. Forthese two beings, however, he had felt in its greatest intensity thesort of interest which always allied him to the subjects of hispencil. He had pried into their souls with his keenest insight andpictured the result upon their features with his utmost skill, so asbarely to fall short of that standard which no genius ever reached,his own severe conception. He had caught from the duskiness of thefuture--at least, so he fancied--a fearful secret, and had obscurelyrevealed it on the portraits. So much of himself--of his imaginationand all other powers--had been lavished on the study of Walter andElinor that he almost regarded them as creations of his own, like thethousands with which he had peopled the realms of Picture. Thereforedid they flit through the twilight of the woods, hover on the mist ofwaterfalls, look forth from the mirror of the lake, nor melt away inthe noontide sun. They haunted his pictorial fancy, not as mockeriesof life nor pale goblins of the dead, but in the guise of portraits,each with an unalterable expression which his magic had evoked fromthe caverns of the soul. He could not recross the Atlantic till he hadagain beheld the originals of those airy pictures.

  "O glorious Art!" Thus mused the enthusiastic painter as he trod thestreet. "Thou art the image of the Creator's own. The innumerableforms that wander in nothingness start into being at thy beck. Thedead live again; thou recallest them to their old scenes and givesttheir gray shadows the lustre of a better life, at once earthly andimmortal. Thou snatchest back the fleeting moments of history. Withthen there is no past, for at thy touch all that is great becomes forever present, and illustrious men live through long ages in thevisible performance of the very deeds which made them what they are. Opotent Art! as thou bringest the faintly-revealed past to stand inthat narrow strip of sunlight which we call 'now,' canst thou summonthe shrouded future to meet her there? Have I not achieved it? Am Inot thy prophet?"

  Thus with a proud yet melancholy fervor did he almost cry aloud as hepassed through the toilsome street among people that knew not of hisreveries nor could understand nor care for them. It is not good forman to cherish a solitary ambition. Unless there be those around himby whose example he may regulate himself, his thoughts, desires andhopes will become extravagant and he the semblance--perh
aps thereality--of a madman. Reading other bosoms with an acuteness almostpreternatural, the painter failed to see the disorder of his own.

  "And this should be the house," said he, looking up and down the frontbefore he knocked. "Heaven help my brains! That picture! Methinks itwill never vanish. Whether I look at the windows or the door, there itis framed within them, painted strongly and glowing in the richesttints--the faces of the portraits, the figures and action of thesketch!"

  He knocked.

  "The portraits--are they within?" inquired he of the domestic; then,recollecting himself, "Your master and mistress--are they at home?"

  "They are, sir," said the servant, adding, as he noticed thatpicturesque aspect of which the painter could never divest himself,"and the portraits too."

  The guest was admitted into a parlor communicating by a central doorwith an interior room of the same size. As the first apartment wasempty, he passed to the entrance of the second, within which his eyeswere greeted by those living personages, as well as their picturedrepresentatives, who had long been the objects of so singular aninterest. He involuntarily paused on the threshold.

  They had not perceived his approach. Walter and Elinor were standingbefore the portraits, whence the former had just flung back the richand voluminous folds of the silken curtain, holding its golden tasselwith one hand, while the other grasped that of his bride. Thepictures, concealed for months, gleamed forth again in undiminishedsplendor, appearing to throw a sombre light across the room ratherthan to be disclosed by a borrowed radiance. That of Elinor had beenalmost prophetic. A pensiveness, and next a gentle sorrow, hadsuccessively dwelt upon her countenance, deepening with the lapse oftime into a quiet anguish. A mixture of affright would now have madeit the very expression of the portrait. Walter's face was moody anddull or animated only by fitful flashes which left a heavier darknessfor their momentary illumination. He looked from Elinor to herportrait, and thence to his own, in the contemplation of which hefinally stood absorbed.

  The painter seemed to hear the step of Destiny approaching behind himon its progress toward its victims. A strange thought darted into hismind. Was not his own the form in which that Destiny had embodieditself, and he a chief agent of the coming evil which he hadforeshadowed?

  Still, Walter remained silent before the picture, communing with it aswith his own heart and abandoning himself to the spell of evilinfluence that the painter had cast upon the features. Gradually hiseyes kindled, while as Elinor watched the increasing wildness of hisface her own assumed a look of terror; and when, at last, he turnedupon her, the resemblance of both to their portraits was complete.

  "Our fate is upon us!" howled Walter. "Die!"

  Drawing a knife, he sustained her as she was sinking to the ground,and aimed it at her bosom. In the action and in the look and attitudeof each the painter beheld the figures of his sketch. The picture,with all its tremendous coloring, was finished.

  "Hold, madman!" cried he, sternly.

  He had advanced from the door and interposed himself between thewretched beings with the same sense of power to regulate their destinyas to alter a scene upon the canvas. He stood like a magiciancontrolling the phantoms which he had evoked.

  "What!" muttered Walter Ludlow as he relapsed from fierce excitementinto sullen gloom. "Does Fate impede its own decree?"

  "Wretched lady," said the painter, "did I not warn you?"

  "You did," replied Elinor, calmly, as her terror gave place to thequiet grief which it had disturbed. "But I loved him."

  Is there not a deep moral in the tale? Could the result of one or allour deeds be shadowed forth and set before us, some would call it fateand hurry onward, others be swept along by their passionate desires,and none be turned aside by the prophetic pictures.