I have taken some pains to string together the various
stories contained in this Volume on a single thread of interest,
which, so far as I know, has at least the merit of not having been
used before.
The pages entitled "Leah's Diary" are, however, intended to
fulfill another purpose besides that of serving as the frame-work
for my collection of tales. In this part of the book, and
subsequently in the Prologues to the stories, it has been my object
to give the reader one more glimpse at that artist-life which
circumstances have afforded me peculiar opportunities of studying,
and which I have already tried to represent, under another aspect,
in my fiction, "Hide-and-Seek." This time I wish to ask some
sympathy for the joys and sorrows of a poor traveling
portrait-painter—presented from his wife's point of view in "Leah's
Diary," and supposed to be briefly and simply narrated by himself
in the Prologues to the stories. I have purposely kept these two
portions of the book within certain limits; only giving, in the one
case, as much as the wife might naturally write in her diary at
intervals of household leisure; and, in the other, as much as a
modest and sensible man would be likely to say about himself and
about the characters he met with in his wanderings. If I have been
so fortunate as to make my idea intelligible by this brief and
simple mode of treatment, and if I have, at the same time, achieved
the necessary object of gathering several separate stories together
as neatly-fitting parts of one complete whole, I shall have
succeeded in a design which I have for some time past been very
anxious creditably to fulfill.
Of the tales themselves, taken individually, I have only to
say, by way of necessary explanation, that "The Lady of Glenwith
Grange" is now offered to the reader for the first time; and that
the other stories have appeared in the columns of
Household Words . My best thanks are
due to Mr. Charles Dickens for his kindness in allowing me to set
them in their present frame-work.
I must also gratefully acknowledge an obligation of another
kind to the accomplished artist, Mr. W. S. Herrick, to whom I am
indebted for the curious and interesting facts on which the tales
of "The Terribly Strange Bed" and "The Yellow Mask" are
founded.
Although the statement may appear somewhat superfluous to
those who know me, it may not be out of place to add, in
conclusion, that these stories are entirely of my own imagining,
constructing, and writing. The fact that the events of some of my
tales occur on foreign ground, and are acted out by foreign
personages, appears to have suggested in some quarters the
inference that the stories themselves might be of foreign origin.
Let me, once for all, assure any readers who may honor me with
their attention, that in this, and in all other cases, they may
depend on the genuineness of my literary offspring. The little
children of my brain may be weakly enough, and may be sadly in want
of a helping hand to aid them in their first attempts at walking on
the stage of this great world; but, at any rate, they are not
borrowed children. The members of my own literary family are indeed
increasing so fast as to render the very idea of borrowing quite
out of the question, and to suggest serious apprehension that I may
not have done adding to the large book-population, on my own sole
responsibility, even yet.
Before I begin, by the aid of my wife's patient attention and
ready pen, to relate any of the stories which I have heard at
various times from persons whose likenesses I have been employed to
take, it will not be amiss if I try to secure the reader's interest
in the following pages, by briefly explaining how I became
possessed of the narrative matter which they contain.
Of myself I have nothing to say, but that I have followed the
profession of a traveling portrait-painter for the last fifteen
years. The pursuit of my calling has not only led me all through
England, but has taken me twice to Scotland, and once to Ireland.
In moving from district to district, I am never guided beforehand
by any settled plan. Sometimes the letters of recommendation which
I get from persons who are satisfied with the work I have done for
them determine the direction in which I travel. Sometimes I hear of
a new neighborhood in which there is no resident artist of ability,
and remove thither on speculation. Sometimes my friends among the
picture-dealers say a good word on my behalf to their rich
customers, and so pave the way for me in the large towns. Sometimes
my prosperous and famous brother-artists, hearing of small
commissions which it is not worth their while to accept, mention my
name, and procure me introductions to pleasant country houses. Thus
I get on, now in one way and now in another, not winning a
reputation or making a fortune, but happier, perhaps, on the whole,
than many men who have got both the one and the other. So, at
least, I try to think now, though I started in my youth with as
high an ambition as the best of them. Thank God, it is not my
business here to speak of past times and their disappointments. A
twinge of the old hopeless heartache comes over me sometimes still,
when I think of my student days.
One peculiarity of my present way of life is, that it brings
me into contact with all sorts of characters. I almost feel, by
this time, as if I had painted every civilized variety of the human
race. Upon the whole, my experience of the world, rough as it has
been, has not taught me to think unkindly of my fellow-creatures. I
have certainly received such treatment at the hands of some of my
sitters as I could not describe without saddening and shocking any
kind-hearted reader; but, taking one year and one place with
another, I have cause to remember with gratitude and
respect—sometimes even with friendship and affection—a very large
proportion of the numerous persons who have employed
me.
Some of the results of my experience are curious in a moral
point of view. For example, I have found women almost uniformly
less delicate in asking me about my terms, and less generous in
remunerating me for my services, than men. On the other hand, men,
within my knowledge, are decidedly vainer of their personal
attractions, and more vexatiously anxious to have them done full
justice to on canvas, than women. Taking both sexes together, I
have found young people, for the most part, more gentle, more
reasonable, and more considerate than old. And, summing up, in a
general way, my experience of different ranks (which extends, let
me premise, all the way down from peers to publicans), I have met
with most of my formal and ungracious receptions among rich people
of uncertain social standing: the highest classes and the lowest
among my employers almost always contrive—in widely different ways,
of course, to make me feel at home as soon as I enter their
houses.
The one great obstacle that I have to contend against in the
practice of my profession is not, as some persons may imagine, the
difficulty of making my sitters keep their heads still while I
paint them, but the difficulty of getting them to preserve the
natural look and the every-day peculiarities of dress and manner.
People will assume an expression, will brush up their hair, will
correct any little characteristic carelessness in their
apparel—will, in short, when they want to have their likenesses
taken, look as if they were sitting for their pictures. If I paint
them, under these artificial circumstances, I fail of course to
present them in their habitual aspect; and my portrait, as a
necessary consequence, disappoints everybody, the sitter always
included. When we wish to judge of a man's character by his
handwriting, we want his customary scrawl dashed off with his
common workaday pen, not his best small-text, traced laboriously
with the finest procurable crow-quill point. So it is with
portrait-painting, which is, after all, nothing but a right reading
of the externals of character recognizably presented to the view of
others.
Experience, after repeated trials, has proved to me that the
only way of getting sitters who persist in assuming a set look to
resume their habitual expression, is to lead them into talking
about some subject in which they are greatly interested. If I can
only beguile them into speaking earnestly, no matter on what topic,
I am sure of recovering their natural expression; sure of seeing
all the little precious everyday peculiarities of the man or woman
peep out, one after another, quite unawares. The long, maundering
stories about nothing, the wearisome recitals of petty grievances,
the local anecdotes unrelieved by the faintest suspicion of
anything like general interest, which I have been condemned to
hear, as a consequence of thawing the ice off the features of
formal sitters by the method just described, would fill hundreds of
volumes, and promote the repose of thousands of readers. On the
other hand, if I have suffered under the tediousness of the many, I
have not been without my compensating gains from the wisdom and
experience of the few. To some of my sitters I have been indebted
for information which has enlarged my mind—to some for advice which
has lightened my heart—to some for narratives of strange adventure
which riveted my attention at the time, which have served to
interest and amuse my fireside circle for many years past, and
which are now, I would fain hope, destined to make kind friends for
me among a wider audience than any that I have yet
addressed.
Singularly enough, almost all the best stories that I have
heard from my sitters have been told by accident. I only remember
two cases in which a story was volunteered to me, and, although I
have often tried the experiment, I cannot call to mind even a
single instance in which leading questions (as the lawyers call
them) on my part, addressed to a sitter, ever produced any result
worth recording. Over and over again, I have been disastrously
successful in encouraging dull people to weary me. But the clever
people who have something interesting to say, seem, so far as I
have observed them, to acknowledge no other stimulant than chance.
For every story which I propose including in the present
collection, excepting one, I have been indebted, in the first
instance, to the capricious influence of the same chance. Something
my sitter has seen about me, something I have remarked in my
sitter, or in the room in which I take the likeness, or in the
neighborhood through which I pass on my way to work, has suggested
the necessary association, or has started the right train of
recollections, and then the story appeared to begin of its own
accord. Occasionally the most casual notice, on my part, of some
very unpromising object has smoothed the way for the relation of a
long and interesting narrative. I first heard one of the most
dramatic of the stories that will be presented in this book, merely
through being carelessly inquisitive to know the history of a
stuffed poodle-dog.
It is thus not without reason that I lay some stress on the
desirableness of prefacing each one of the following narratives by
a brief account of the curious manner in which I became possessed
of it. As to my capacity for repeating these stories correctly, I
can answer for it that my memory may be trusted. I may claim it as
a merit, because it is after all a mechanical one, that I forget
nothing, and that I can call long-passed conversations and events
as readily to my recollection as if they had happened but a few
weeks ago. Of two things at least I feel tolerably certain
beforehand, in meditating over the contents of this book: First,
that I can repeat correctly all that I have heard; and, secondly,
that I have never missed anything worth hearing when my sitters
were addressing me on an interesting subject. Although I cannot
take the lead in talking while I am engaged in painting, I can
listen while others speak, and work all the better for
it.
So much in the way of general preface to the pages for which
I am about to ask the reader's attention. Let me now advance to
particulars, and describe how I came to hear the first story in the
present collection. I begin with it because it is the story that I
have oftenest "rehearsed," to borrow a phrase from the stage.
Wherever I go, I am sooner or later sure to tell it. Only last
night, I was persuaded into repeating it once more by the
inhabitants of the farmhouse in which I am now
staying.
Not many years ago, on returning from a short holiday visit
to a friend settled in Paris, I found professional letters awaiting
me at my agent's in London, which required my immediate presence in
Liverpool. Without stopping to unpack, I proceeded by the first
conveyance to my new destination; and, calling at the
picture-dealer's shop, where portrait-painting engagements were
received for me, found to my great satisfaction that I had
remunerative employment in prospect, in and about Liverpool, for at
least two months to come. I was putting up my letters in high
spirits, and was just leaving the picture-dealer's shop to look out
for comfortable lodgings, when I was met at the door by the
landlord of one of the largest hotels in Liverpool—an old
acquaintance whom I had known as manager of a tavern in London in
my student days.
"Mr. Kerby!" he exclaimed, in great astonishment. "What an
unexpected meeting! the last man in the world whom I expected to
see, and yet the very man whose services I want to make use
of!"
"What, more work for me?" said I; "are all the people in
Liverpool going to have their portraits painted?"
"I only know of one," replied the landlord, "a gentleman
staying at my hotel, who wants a chalk drawing done for him. I was
on my way here to inquire of any artist whom our picture-dealing
friend could recommend. How glad I am that I met you before I had
committed myself to employing a stranger!"
"Is this likeness wanted at once?" I asked, thinking of the
number of engagements that I had already got in my
pocket.
"Immediately—to-day—this very hour, if possible," said the
landlord. "Mr. Faulkner, the gentleman I am speaking of, was to
have sailed yesterday for the Brazils from this place; but the wind
shifted last night to the wrong quarter, and he came ashore again
this morning. He may of course be detained here for some time; but
he may also be called on board ship at half an hour's notice, if
the wind shifts back again in the right direction. This uncertainty
makes it a matter of importance that the likeness should be begun
immediately. Undertake it if you possibly can, for Mr. Faulkner's a
liberal gentleman, who is sure to give you your own
terms."
I reflected for a minute or two. The portrait was only wanted
in chalk, and would not take long; besides, I might finish it in
the evening, if my other engagements pressed hard upon me in the
daytime. Why not leave my luggage at the picture-dealer's, put off
looking for lodgings till night, and secure the new commission
boldly by going back at once with the landlord to the hotel? I
decided on following this course almost as soon as the idea
occurred to me—put my chalks in my pocket, and a sheet of drawing
paper in the first of my portfolios that came to hand—and so
presented myself before Mr. Faulkner, ready to take his likeness,
literally at five minutes' notice.
I found him a very pleasant, intelligent man, young and
handsome. He had been a great traveler; had visited all the wonders
of the East; and was now about to explore the wilds of the vast
South American Continent. Thus much he told me good-humoredly and
unconstrainedly while I was preparing my drawing
materials.
As soon as I had put him in the right light and position, and
had seated myself opposite to him, he changed the subject of
conversation, and asked me, a little confusedly as I thought, if it
was not a customary practice among portrait-painters to gloss over
the faults in their sitters' faces, and to make as much as possible
of any good points which their features might possess.
"Certainly," I answered. "You have described the whole art
and mystery of successful portrait-painting in a few
words."
"May I beg, then," said he, "that you will depart from the
usual practice in my case, and draw me with all my defects, exactly
as I am? The fact is," he went on, after a moment's pause, "the
likeness you are now preparing to take is intended for my mother.
My roving disposition makes me a great anxiety to her, and she
parted from me this last time very sadly and unwillingly. I don't
know how the idea came into my head, but it struck me this morning
that I could not better employ the time, while I was delayed here
on shore, than by getting my likeness done to send to her as a
keepsake. She has no portrait of me since I was a child, and she is
sure to value a drawing of me more than anything else I could send
to her. I only trouble you with this explanation to prove that I am
really sincere in my wish to be drawn unflatteringly, exactly as I
am."
Secretly respecting and admiring him for what he had just
said, I promised that his directions should be implicitly followed,
and began to work immediately. Before I had pursued my occupation
for ten minutes, the conversation began to flag, and the usual
obstacle to my success with a sitter gradually set itself up
between us. Quite unconsciously, of course, Mr. Faulkner stiffened
his neck, shut his month, and contracted his eyebrows—evidently
under the impression that he was facilitating the process of taking
his portrait by making his face as like a lifeless mask as
possible. All traces of his natural animated expression were fast
disappearing, and he was beginning to change into a heavy and
rather melancholy-looking man.
This complete alteration was of no great consequence so long
as I was only engaged in drawing the outline of his face and the
general form of his features. I accordingly worked on doggedly for
more than an hour—then left off to point my chalks again, and to
give my sitter a few minutes' rest. Thus far the likeness had not
suffered through Mr. Faulkner's unfortunate notion of the right way
of sitting for his portrait; but the time of difficulty, as I well
knew, was to come. It was impossible for me to think of putting any
expression into the drawing unless I could contrive some means,
when he resumed his chair, of making him look like himself again.
"I will talk to him about foreign parts," thought I, "and try if I
can't make him forget that he is sitting for his picture in that
way."
While I was pointing my chalks Mr. Faulkner was walking up
and down the room. He chanced to see the portfolio I had brought
with me leaning against the wall, and asked if there were any
sketches in it. I told him there were a few which I had made during
my recent stay in Paris; "In Paris?" he repeated, with a look of
interest; "may I see them?"
I gave him the permission he asked as a matter of course.
Sitting down, he took the portfolio on his knee, and began to look
through it. He turned over the first five sketches rapidly enough;
but when he came to the sixth, I saw his face flush directly, and
observed that he took the drawing out of the portfolio, carried it
to the window, and remained silently absorbed in the contemplation
of it for full five minutes. After that, he turned round to me, and
asked very anxiously if I had any objection to part with that
sketch.
It was the least interesting drawing of the collection—merely
a view in one of the streets running by the backs of the houses in
the Palais Royal. Some four or five of these houses were comprised
in the view, which was of no particular use to me in any way; and
which was too valueless, as a work of art, for me to think of
selling it. I begged his acceptance of it at once. He thanked me
quite warmly; and then, seeing that I looked a little surprised at
the odd selection he had made from my sketches, laughingly asked me
if I could guess why he had been so anxious to become possessed of
the view which I had given him?
"Probably," I answered, "there is some remarkable historical
association connected with that street at the back of the Palais
Royal, of which I am ignorant."
"No," said Mr. Faulkner; "at least none that
I know of. The only association
connected with the place in my
mind is a purely personal association. Look at this house in
your drawing—the house with the water-pipe running down it from top
to bottom. I once passed a night there—a night I shall never forget
to the day of my death. I have had some awkward traveling
adventures in my time; but that
adventure—! Well, never mind, suppose we begin the sitting. I
make but a bad return for your kindness in giving me the sketch by
thus wasting your time in mere talk."
"Come! come!" thought I, as he went back to the sitter's
chair, "I shall see your natural expression on your face if I can
only get you to talk about that adventure." It was easy enough to
lead him in the right direction. At the first hint from me, he
returned to the subject of the house in the back street. Without, I
hope, showing any undue curiosity, I contrived to let him see that
I felt a deep interest in everything he now said. After two or
three preliminary hesitations, he at last, to my great joy, fairly
started on the narrative of his adventure. In the interest of his
subject he soon completely forgot that he was sitting for his
portrait—the very expression that I wanted came over his face—and
my drawing proceeded toward completion, in the right direction, and
to the best purpose. At every fresh touch I felt more and more
certain that I was now getting the better of my grand difficulty;
and I enjoyed the additional gratification of having my work
lightened by the recital of a true story, which possessed, in my
estimation, all the excitement of the most exciting
romance.
This, as I recollect it, is how Mr. Faulkner told me his
adventure: