Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 423

THE ARTIST'S SACRIFICE

On a cold evening in January—one of those dark and gloomy evenings which fill one with sadness—there sat watching by the bed of a sick man, in a little room on the fifth floor, a woman of about forty, and two pretty children—a boy of twelve and a little girl of eight. The exquisite neatness of the room almost concealed its wretchedness: everything announced order and economy, but at the same time great poverty. A painted wooden bedstead, covered with coarse but clean calico sheets, blue calico curtains, four chairs, a straw arm-chair, a high desk of dark wood, with a few books and boxes placed on shelves, composed the entire furniture of the room. And yet the man who lay on that wretched bed, whose pallid cheek, and harsh, incessant cough, foretold the approach of death, was one of the brightest ornaments of our literature. His historical works had won for him a European celebrity, his writings having been translated into all the modern languages; yet he had always remained poor, because his devotion to science had prevented him from devoting a sufficient portion of his time to productive labour.

An unfinished piece of costly embroidery thrown on a little stand near the bed, another piece of a less costly kind, but yet too luxurious to be intended for the use of this poor family, shewed that his wife and daughter—this gentle child whose large dark eyes were so full of sadness—endeavoured by the work of their hands to make up for the unproductiveness of his efforts. The sick man slept, and the mother, taking away the lamp and the pieces of embroidery, went with her children into the adjoining room, which served both as antechamber and dining-room: she seated herself at the table, and took up her work with a sad and abstracted air; then observing her little daughter doing the same thing cheerfully, and her son industriously colouring some prints destined for a book of fashions, she embraced them; and raising her tearful eyes towards heaven, she seemed to be thanking the Almighty, and in the midst of her affliction, to be filled with gratitude to Him who had blessed her with such children.

Soon after, a gentle ring was heard at the door, and M. Raymond, a young doctor, with a frank, pleasing countenance, entered and inquired for the invalid. 'Just the same, doctor,' said Mme G–.

The young man went into the next room, and gazed for some moments attentively on the sleeper, whilst the poor wife fixed her eyes on the doctor's countenance, and seemed there to read her fate.

'Is there no hope, doctor?' she asked in a choking voice, as she conducted him to the other room. The doctor was silent, and the afflicted mother embraced her children and wept. After a pause she said: 'There is one idea which haunts me continually: I should wish so much to have my husband's likeness. Do you know of any generous and clever artist, doctor? Oh, how much this would add to the many obligations you have already laid me under!'

'Unfortunately, I am not acquainted with a single artist,' replied the young doctor.

'I must then renounce this desire,' said Mme G– sighing.

The next morning Henry—so the little boy was called—having assisted his mother and his sister Marie in their household labours, dressed himself carefully, and, as it was a holiday, asked leave to go out.

'Go, my child,' said his mother; 'go and breathe a little fresh air: your continual work is injurious to you.'

The boy kissed his father's wasted hand, embraced his mother and sister, and went out, at once sad and pleased. When he reached the street he hesitated for a moment, then directed his steps towards the drawing-school where he attended every day: he entered, and rung at the door of the apartment belonging to the professor who directed this academy. A servant opened the door, and conducted him into an elegantly-furnished breakfast-room; for the professor was one of the richest and most distinguished painters of the day. He was breakfasting alone with his wife, when Henry entered.

'There, my dear,' He said to her, as he perceived Henry; 'there is the cleverest pupil in the academy. This little fellow really promises to do me great credit one day. Well, my little friend, what do you wish to say to me?'

'Sir, my father is very ill—the doctor fears that he may die: poor mamma, who is very fond of papa, wishes to have his portrait. Would you, sir, be kind enough to take it? O do not, pray, sir, do not refuse me!' said Henry, whose tearful eyes were fixed imploringly on the artist.

'Impossible, Henry—impossible!' replied the painter. 'I am paid three thousand francs for every portrait I paint, and I have five or six at present to finish.'

'But, my dear,' interposed his wife, 'it seems to me that this portrait would take you but little time: think of the poor mother, whose husband will so soon be lost to her for ever.'

'It grieves me to refuse you, my dear; but you know that my battle-piece, which is destined for Versailles, must be sent to the Louvre in a fortnight, for I cannot miss the Exposition this year. But stay, my little friend, I will give you the address of several of my pupils: tell them I sent you, and you will certainly find some one of them who will do what you wish. Good-morning, Henry!'

'Good-by, my little friend,' added the lady. 'I hope you may be successful.' The boy took his leave with a bursting heart.

Henry wandered through the gardens of the Luxembourg, debating with himself if he should apply to the young artists whose addresses he held in his hand. Fearing that his new efforts might be equally unsuccessful, he was trying to nerve himself to encounter fresh refusals, when he was accosted by a boy of his own age, his fellow-student at the drawing-school. Jules proposed that they should walk together; then observing Henry's sadness, he asked him the cause. Henry told him of his mother's desire; their master's refusal to take the portrait; and of his own dislike to apply to those young artists, who were strangers to him.

'Come with me,' cried Jules, when his friend had ceased speaking. 'My sister is also an artist: she has always taken care of me, for our father and mother died when we were both very young. She is so kind and so fond of me that I am very sure she will not refuse.'

The two boys traversed the Avenue de l'Observatoire, the merry, joyous face of the one contrasting with the sadness and anxiety of the other. When they got to the end of the avenue they entered the Rue de l'Ouest, and went into a quiet-looking house, up to the fourth storey of which Jules mounted with rapid steps, dragging poor Henry with him. He tapped gaily at a little door, which a young servant opened: he passed through the antechamber, and the two boys found themselves in the presence of Emily d'Orbe, the sister of Jules.

She appeared to be about twenty-five: she was not tall, and her face was rather pleasing than handsome; yet her whole appearance indicated cultivation and amiability. Her dress was simple, but exquisitely neat; her gown of brown stuff fitted well to her graceful figure; her linen cuffs and collar were of a snowy whiteness; her hair was parted in front, and fastened up behind à l'antique: but she wore no ribbon, no ornament—nothing but what was necessary. The furniture of the room, which served at the same time as a sitting-room and studio, was equally simple: a little divan, some chairs and two arm-chairs covered with gray cloth, a round table, a black marble time-piece of the simplest form; two engravings, the 'Spasimo di Sicilia' and the 'Three Maries,' alone ornamented the walls; green blinds were placed over the windows, not for ornament, but to moderate the light, according to the desire of the artist; finally, three easels, on which rested some unfinished portraits, and a large painting representing Anna Boleyn embracing her daughter before going to execution.

When he entered, little Jules went first to embrace his sister; she tenderly returned his caresses, then said to him in a gentle voice, as she returned to her easel: 'Now, my dear child, let me go on with my painting;' not, however, without addressing a friendly 'Good-morning' to Henry, who she thought had come to play with Jules.

Henry had been looking at the unfinished pictures with a sort of terror, because they appeared to him as obstacles between him and his request. He dared not speak, fearing to hear again the terrible word 'impossible!' and he was going away, when Jules took him by the hand and drew him towards Emily. 'Sister,' he said, 'I have brought my friend Henry to see you; he wishes to ask you something; do speak to him.'

'Jules,' she replied, 'let me paint; you know I have very little time. You are playing the spoiled child: you abuse my indulgence.'

'Indeed, Emily, I am not jesting; you must really speak to Henry. If you knew how unhappy he is!'

Mlle d'Orbe, raising her eyes to the boy, was struck with his pale and anxious face, and said to him in a kind voice, as she continued her painting: 'Forgive my rudeness, my little friend; this picture is to be sent to the Exposition, and I have not a moment to lose, because, both for my brother's sake and my own, I wish it to do me credit. But speak, my child; speak without fear, and be assured that I will not refuse you anything that is in the power of a poor artist.'

Henry, regaining a little courage, told her what he desired: then Jules having related his friend's visit to their master, Henry added: 'But I see very well, mademoiselle, that you cannot do this portrait either, and I am sorry to have disturbed you.'

In the meantime little Jules had been kissing his sister, and caressing her soft hair, entreating her not to refuse his little friend's request. Mlle d'Orbe was painting Anna Boleyn: she stopped her work; a struggle seemed to arise in the depth of her heart, while she looked affectionately on the children. She, however, soon laid aside her pallett, and casting one glance of regret on her picture: 'I will take your father's portrait,' she said to Henry—'that man of sorrow, and of genius. Your mother's wish shall be fulfilled.'

She had scarcely uttered these words when a lady entered the room. She was young, pretty, and richly dressed. Having announced her name, she asked Mlle d'Orbe to take her portrait, on the express condition that it should be finished in time to be placed in the Exposition.

'It is impossible for me to have this honour, madame,' replied the artist: 'I have a picture to finish, and I have just promised to do a portrait to which I must give all my spare time.'

'You would have been well paid for my portrait, and my name in the catalogue would have made yours known,' added the young countess.

Mlle d'Orbe only replied by a bow; and the lady had scarcely withdrawn, when taking her bonnet and shawl, the young artist embraced her brother, took Henry by the hand, and said to him: 'Bring me to your mother, my child.'

Henry flew rather than walked; Mlle d'Orbe could with difficulty keep up with him. Both ascended to the fifth storey in the house in the Rue Descartes, where this poor family lived. When they reached the door, Henry tapped softly at it. Mme G– opened it.

'Mamma,' said the boy, trembling with emotion, 'this lady is an artist: she is come to take papa's portrait.' The poor woman, who had not hoped for such an unexpected happiness, wept as she pressed to her lips the hands of Mlle d'Orbe, and could not find words to express her gratitude.

The portrait was commenced at once; and the young artist worked with zeal and devotion, for her admiration of the gifted and unfortunate man was intense. She resolved to make the piece valuable as a work of art, for posterity might one day demand the portrait of this gifted man, and her duty as a painter was to represent him in his noblest aspect.

Long sittings fatigued the invalid; so it was resolved to take two each day, and the young artist came regularly twice every day. As by degrees the strength of the sick man declined, the portrait advanced. At length, at the end of twelve days, it was finished: this was about a week before the death of M. G–.

At the same time that she was painting this portrait, Mlle d'Orbe worked with ardour on her large painting, always hoping to have it ready in time. This hope did not fail her until some days before the 1st of February. There was but a week longer to work: and this year she must abandon the idea of sending to the Exposition.

Some artists who had seen her picture had encouraged her very much; she could count, in their opinion, on brilliant success. This she desired with all her heart: first, from that noble thirst of glory which God has implanted in the souls of artists; and, secondly, from the influence it would have on the prospects of her little Jules, whom she loved with a mother's tenderness, and whom she wished to be able to endow with all the treasures of education. This disappointment, these long hours of toil, rendered so vain at the very moment when she looked forward to receive her reward, so depressed the young artist, that she became dangerously ill.

Mlle d'Orbe had very few friends, as she was an orphan, and lived in great retirement; she found herself therefore completely left to the care of her young attendant. When Jules met Henry at the drawing-school he told him of his sister's illness: Henry informed his mother, and Mme G– immediately hastened to Mlle d'Orbe, whom she found in the delirium of a fever from which she had been suffering for some days. The servant said that her mistress had refused to send for a doctor, pretending that her illness did not signify. Mme G–, terrified at the state of her young friend, went out and soon returned with Dr Raymond.

The invalid was delirious: she unceasingly repeated the words—'portrait,' 'Anna Boleyn,' 'exposition,' 'fortune,' 'disappointed hopes;' which plainly indicated the cause of her illness, and brought tears into the eyes of Mme G–. 'Alas!' she said, 'it is on my account she suffers: I am the cause of her not finishing her picture. Doctor, I am very unfortunate.'

'All may be repaired,' replied the doctor: 'if you will promise to nurse the invalid, I will answer for her recovery.'

In fact, Mme G– never left the sick-bed of Mlle d'Orbe. The doctor visited her twice in the day, and their united care soon restored the health of the interesting artist.

Mademoiselle was scarcely convalescent when she went to the Exposition of paintings at the Louvre, of which she had heard nothing—the doctor and Mme G– having, as she thought, avoided touching on a subject which might pain her. She passed alone through the galleries, crowded with distinguished artists and elegantly-dressed ladies, saying to herself that perhaps her picture would have been as good as many which attracted the admiration of the crowd. She was thus walking sadly on, looking at the spot where she had hoped to have seen her Anna Boleyn, when she found herself stopped by a group of artists. They were unanimous in their praises. 'This is the best portrait in the Exposition,' said one. 'A celebrated engraver is about to buy from the artist the right to engrave this portrait for the new edition of the author's works,' said another. 'We are very fortunate in having so faithful a likeness of so distinguished a writer as M. G–.'

At this name Mlle d'Orbe raised her eyes, and recognised her own work! Pale, trembling with emotion, the young artist was obliged to lean on the rail for support; then opening the catalogue, she read her name as if in a dream, and remained for some time to enjoy the pleasure of hearing the praises of her genius.

When the Exposition closed she hastened to Mme G–, and heard that it was Dr Raymond who had conceived the happy idea of sending the portrait to the Louvre. 'My only merit is the separating myself for a time from a picture which is my greatest consolation,' added Mme G–.

From this day the young artist became the friend of the poor widow, whose prospects soon brightened. Through the influence of some of the friends of her lost husband, she obtained a pension from government—a merited but tardy reward! The two ladies lived near each other, and spent their evenings together. Henry and Jules played and studied together. Marie read aloud, while her mother and Mlle d'Orbe worked. Dr Raymond sometimes shared in this pleasant intercourse. He had loved the young artist from the day he had seen her renounce so much to do a generous action; but, an orphan like herself, and with no fortune but his profession, he feared to be rejected if he offered her his hand. It was therefore Mme G– who charged herself with pleading his suit with the young artist.

Mlle d'Orbe felt a lively gratitude towards the young doctor for the care and solicitude he had shewn during her illness, and for sending her portrait to the Exposition. Thanks to him, she had become known; commissions arrived in numbers, a brilliant future opened before her and Jules. Mme G– had, then, a favourable answer to give to her young friend, who soon became the husband of the interesting artist whose generous sacrifice had been the foundation of her happiness.

ACCIDENTS AT SEA

On this subject an interesting return to an order of the House of Commons was lately made by the management of Lloyd's, and has caused some discussion in the public prints. The return applies to the four years ending December 1850; and during this period, it appears that the number of collisions, wrecks, and other accidents at sea, was 13,510; being at the rate of 3377 per annum, 9 per diem, or 1 for every 2¾ hours. Commenting on these details, the Times observes, that 'it must not be understood that every accident implies a total wreck, with the loss of all hands. If a ship carries away any of her important spars, or, on entering her port, strikes heavily against a pier, whereby serious damage is occasioned, the accident is duly registered in this pithy chronicle of Lloyd's. Nevertheless, as we glance up and down the columns, it is no exaggeration to say, that two-thirds of the accidents recorded are of the most serious description. We are unable to say to what degree this register of Lloyd's can be accepted as a fair index to the tragedies which are of such hourly occurrence upon the surface of the ocean. If all were known, we fear that this average of accident or wreck every 2¾ hours would be fearfully increased. The truth must he told. The incapacity of too many of the masters in the British mercantile marine has been the pregnant cause of loss to their owners and death to their crews. Men scarcely competent to take the responsibility of an ordinary day's work, or, if competent, of notoriously intemperate habits, were placed in command of sea-going ships through the parsimony or nepotism of the owners. The result of the educational clauses in the Mercantile Marine Bill of last session, will no doubt be to provide a much larger body of well-trained men, from among whom our shipowners can select the most competent persons for command.'

These observations called forth a reply from the President of the Seaman's Association, vindicating mariners from the charges so brought against them. A few passages from the letter of this respondent are worth noticing. 'Are British sailors,' he asks, 'really so bad as you represent? If so, then you condemn by implication the seamen of the United States, for they are also Anglo-Saxon. Let me direct your attention to a few facts bearing out this assertion. The desertions from the royal navy in 1846 (see Parliamentary Returns) were 2382; this is about 1 out of every 14 seamen annually. Nearly the whole of these men keep to the United States' service. Again, the desertions from Quebec in consequence of three things—first, low wages; secondly, register-tickets; thirdly, the payment of 1s., exacted from every man on shipment and discharge, to a shipping office, to uphold the Mercantile Marine Act, for which the men receive no value—were upwards of 1400 this season; and about 4000 from all other ports. From American statistics, it is proved that two-thirds of the seamen sailing in ships of the United States are British subjects; and if American ships are preferred to British, it must be because they are manned by our fine spirited tars. A large proportion of their ships are commanded by Englishmen.'