TALES & SKETCHES.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 932, 10 January 1890, Page 7

TALES & SKETCHES.

[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.] BY ORDER OF THE CZAR. THE TRAGIC STORY OF ANNA KLOSSTOCK, THE QUEEN OF THE Ghetto. BY JOSEPH HATTON, Author of ‘Cruel London,’ ‘The Three Recruits;’ ‘John Needham’s Double,’ &o. EAll Rights Reserved."] • Part 11. Chapter vi. * What Fates; Impose, that Men Must . . ' - .Needs Abide. They awoke to hew life the next day, several persons in this history. The old order of things had change! in a night. Dolly held a new position in the eyes of herself, her relations and friends ; she was ‘engaged.’ Mrs Milbanke entered upon a fresh phase of existence; her sister had ‘ accepted ’ Mr • Philip Forsyth ; Lady Forsyth would be Dolly’s mother-in-law. Mr Samuel SwynfoTd might no longer feel that in his city operations he was working for a future in whioh ‘Dolly Norcott would have the leading part. Dick Chetwynd now believed that the career of his friend, Philip Forsyth, had now become seoure. Hitherto his prospects had needed the ballast of responsible duties. Married to Dolly, his ambition would be fostered by an absence of what the young fellow had considered the absolute necessity of earning his own living ; for although Lady Forsyth had a fair income, she spent every penny of it and did not keep out of debt, and the Dossibility of her death and his inheritance of the property left by his father did not for a moment enter into Philip’s calculations. Lady Forayth felt something like a sense of triumph in the engagement of Philip and Dorothy, for many reasons ; it secured her son’s independence, it relieved her of a kind of responsibility as to his futare, she liked Dolly, ' thoqght the Milpankes pleasant Successful people, and the excitement of the wedding, and getting ready for it would be s*n agreeable break in her life, which, lively as it was in a general way, the time of it was all on one string. ■ \ Philip went- to his studio on that menqopable next day, unhitched his bell, wj?o(je ‘Out’ on his wicket, locked his door, put the key in his pocket, and entered upon a reflective solitude." A The Regent’s Park studios were s pretty, red-brick cluster of buildings, north of Primrose Hill, designed and erected for art work, and for personal comfort, by an enterprising architect who recognised the progressive movement of the times, and in the right spirit provided a calm retreat for workers who could afford to pay a fair rent for their accommodation. The Btudios had a general portal, in which i esided the porter and hia wife, who kept a small staff of servants for the purpose of attending to the domestic and culinary requirements of the tenants. Passing through this general portal, which had its gates and hours on the principle of an oldfashioned college or inn, you cable into a courtyard, around which the studios were Vahgedj each with its individual retiring rooms‘and ’ ofiices.' Some Of the men lived there altogether;; one Occupant, after so&e protests and difficulties with'the landlord, had been permitted to Bring home his wife there ; another house was occupied by a lady artist; aud thus the‘humanising influence of woman had entered through the general portal and given a pleasant tone to the place. From the moment that Hymen had home in there,Aesthetic blinds, red-raddled flower-pots, outti ie mats, birds in cages, and gay flowerbeds’ had appeared'; while the jiarm ess;* necessary cat had a ribcon tied round its neck, and the colony had made itself look 33 gay §nd merry as it undoubtedly was. There had been little luncheons and an oocasional reception prior to the entrance of Hymen with his torch ; but they were as nothing compared with the gatherings which had made the place musical and floral in these latter days, when the Regent’s Park Studios have become famous not only for the

Work they turn out, but for their social gaieties. Nobody would ever be able to work and play as well in the same place, it was feared, when Hymen was permitted to light his torch within the sacred precincts ; but ‘Out’ made any stndio safe from inter, rnption. 4 Out ’ communicated to the porter’s Lodge, wae as powerful a talisman of protection from callers as if the painter who exhibited the legend on his wicket had been leagues away • and so the opoortunity for serious work was secured. It was a tribute to the earnestness and industry of the region, during the weeks immediately preceding the Spring Exhibitions, that, as a rule, the entire colony was * out ’ from early morn till dewy eve; and Philip’s ‘out’ was, therefore, not singular on this bright and breezy April morning. There was a cheerful fire in his stove. The sun was streaming in at his western window. Having promply drawn a> blind down against the radiant light, Philip took off hiß black morning coat and waistcoat, and put on his brown velvet working jacket, removed his boots in favour of a pair of white tennis shoes, and took up a position of observation with his back to the , stove, which was a handsome terracotta construction, German in appearance, but with the advantage of an open grate, making it a compromise between England and the foreigner so much as to retain the national prejudice in favour of an open fire, while it secured the German and Russian practicability of a real heating stove.

Philip stood with his back to the fire and surveyed the room ; not that he saw anything in it, but he surveyed it all the same, looked round it, up at the roof, and down at the floor, the couch with its tiger skin, his low easy chairs with their fluffy cushions, his parqueUe floor with its rugs, his screen full of rough sketches, his throne, for sitters, his two great easels, his cabinet’crowded with papers of all kinds—drawings, old engravings, and new sketches—and his wardrobe full of costumes, the sketch on his easel covered with a piece of silk, the door opening into one of his retiring rooms, with its cartoons in the little passage way, his small collection nf plastic ware scattered here and there, and his statuettes of a Russian peasant, and a baked clay model of a Polish patriot. AU these things he looked at, but did not see ; his mind was occupied with other images, with other thoughts ; it was not altogether absent from the stndio, but it was making carious and strange journeys outside the porter's lodge, and busy with thoughts that went out far away, and with strange day-dreams.

Did he love the girl to whom last night he had engaged himself in a lifelong bond? Or in what ha had said was he pledged to that serious compact of marriage ? If Love was that absorbing passion he had dreamed of, was he in love with Dolly ? »Vas not his last night’s engagement a sudden impulse, in which there was a good deni of passion and very little love? Was Dolly the ideal of womanhood he had dreamt of as an artist, and read of in the poets ? Was she not rather a pretty, clpver, little woman of the world, her heart in the studio of the milliner .rather than in the studio of the painter? Did she really care for Art ? Was Beauty without the refining grace of culture and sentiment really Beauty? Wouid any man have been happy with the most perfect goddess of the Grecian sculptors. ■ Did Providence for that matter ever combine true physical beauty with intellectual grace ? Had not Dolly and her sister, and even Walter, seemed last night to enter into a charming conspiracy to get him to ask Dolly to be his wife ? Had not Walter’s genial wine, the sweet incense of admiration, the soft, cozy, healthful charms of Dolly, been sensuous, as opposed to the spirituelle temptations which should guide the choice ot a lover who looked for a wife superior to the wiles of Society and to the frivolous attractions of dress f

These questions, not exaotly in definite shape, but shadowy, passed before him, without answers. They seemed to have the accompaniment of some strains of music from CarmeD, and his thoughts wandered away to the opera, and to the beautiful, sad face in the curtains of Lady Marchmount’s box. • ‘

He listened, and conld hear faintly the strains of a street band, which was playing a passage from the very scene which had for him been interrupted by that strangely fascinating presence which he had endeavoured to suggest in hig medal picture. His eyes wandered to the easel, and as they did so the remnant of grey silk which had covered his sketch gradually slipped down upon the floor, and there was the face looking at him, through its deep red halo, and its accompanying figures of misery and suffering. There was nothing supernatural in this, though it exercised ah uncanny kind of influence upon Philip,. The truth is the drapery had been gradually slipping away for hours influenced by the increasing gravitation of the heaviest part to the floor and the entrance of Philip, the shutting of the door, and his moving about, so that it fell away just at a critical moment in Philip’s reflections, and his imaginative nature found in the incident a shadow pf a protest against the chief event of the previous night. If Dolly’s face only gave you the idea that there was something behind, he went on mentally saying to himself, an intellectuality beyond mere worldliness, hpw much more beautiful it would be I But he cpuld lead her into the direction of the studies ho liked ; ha could give her an ambition higher than that of Bhining bring her sympathies withinhis own control. Could he ? There was the rub. And there, still before him, was his idea of the face which of all others he had ever seen possessed intellectual fire, poetic sentiment, but had withal a something fearful ip its great eyes, and something thrilling and mysterious in its sudden appearance and. in its no less startling disappearance. He walked to the easel, picked up the silk remnant, and glanced round the room as if he expected to see some one ; then mochaniealty wrapping up the piece of silk, placed it carefully away in his wardrobe, took up bis palette, wiped it, and com-

menced to squeeze a series of colour tubes upon it. While he is thus engaged, let us glance at him critically. It is a promising youth, not quite rugged enough perhaps for the making of a man of action, but at the same time betokening firmness, good health, ambition, checked however by one physiognomical drawback, a somewhat weak chin, and with eyebrows that as a rule rarely accompany a happy disposition. Lavater has some notable views upon the meeting eyebrows held by the Arabs to be so beautiful, and by the old physiognomists to be the mark of craft, but regarded by the master as neither beautiful nor betokening craft, but rather, while giving the face a rather gloomy appearance, deuoting trouble of mind and heart. Similarly with the pointed ohin ; man / people believe it to be the accompaniment of acuteness and craft, but Lavater knew many honourable persons with such chins, and he noted that their craft is the craft of the best dramatic poetry. Philip Forsyth had the melancholy eyebrows and the flaw of weakness in the chin, not as to the pointed chin, but to the want of angularity, and the suggestion of retreat, coupled with a something negative in both its form and shape : but for these drawbacks, Philip’s face was the face of an artist, and a man of nobility of mind and ambition. The compact forehead, the thick black hair, the perfect nose—suggestive of the keystone of the Gothic arch, as Lavater regarded it —the dark, steadfast eyes, the strong hands with their long dexterous fingers, the well-propor-tioned limbs, moderate breadth of shoulder with narrow hips and easy graceful movements, all belonging to masculine beauty, and to a nature of keen sensibilities. Meeting Philip for the first time you would have regarde i him as a young man out of the common ; bnfc you might have credited him with nursing an ambition he conld not realise, or with a melancholy turn of disposition—qualities which are not without attraction in the yonDg, who are just beginning to realise the responsibilities of existence.

There was perhaps a further touch of weakness in Philip’s individual characteristics —namely, in his gait and manner. He did not walk straight and direct to anything : there was a something akitt to feline graceful, ness in his movements. He approached an object with a certain swerve of motion, as if he, more or less, walked in curves, as graceful aotors do ; and this also was characteristic of his mode of thought. It was to the line of retreat in the chin, its slight undersize, that physiognomists would oredit this peculiarity, comhined with a strong imagination not under the full control of the logical or executive faculties. But these very weaknesses helped in many respects to add to the attractiveness of Philip’s work and conversation. They made, for instanoe, Disk Chetwynd feel perfectly safe in giving him. advioe, and added to Dick’s satisfaction in the young fellow’s matrimonial engagement to a pretty, sensible girl not likely to be led away with will-o’-the-wisps, andwith sufficientmonev in the three per cents to give stability to hi 3 social and domestic position. Philip, having laid his palette and brushes down by the easel, took from his pocket a cigar case, selected a cigar, lighted it, dragged a chair in front of his sketch, sat cross-legged upon it and gazed at the canvas Steadfastly, smoking all the time, and occasionally looking upwards, watching the blue wreaths break upon the crossbeam, from which hung specimens of old fliut guns, spears, bows and arrows, and a Roman corslet.

With the eye of imagination he saw his picture grow into what it might be, what he hoped it would be, nob only a great work of art, but an everlasting rebuke to Russian tyranny, not simply the study to which the Academy had awarded the Gold Medal, but the study which had perhaps brought the awful political disabilities of the Russians home to the sufferers, helping the champions of the people to break the chains that kept Liberty in prison, galled its flesh, and wore its brain to madness He bad once seen a band of political prisoners and criminals start on their weary way to J-iberia, and he had never forgotten it, nor would, though he was not more than nine years old at that time. It was during the years his mother and father lived in Moscow. Wherever they are condemned to Siberian exile by order of the Czar—everything is by order of the Czar in that vast, despotically-governed empire—they proceed first to Moscow,where, after a brief sojourn ja the great convict prison there, they start qn their ayrful journey. The prison is some distanoefrom the oity, and Philip remembered that he and his father rose yery early to see the exiles leave, his father having some mission of beoevolenoe to one of them, which he was allowed to undertake by order of the Czar. The penal settlement was a series of huts and houses surrounded by a high wall. There were numerous sentinels, and they had many formalities to go through before Philip’s father saw the wretched m aa for ( whom he had brought the last parting messages from a broken-hearted wife. The prisoners included both men and women, and they were as a rale attired in a uniform kind of dress, which seemed to Philip's memory to be a long, loose great coat of a rough grey qlpth. As they left the prison the3r saw the first gang begin their march, and’it was tfie recollection of this which had enabled Philip to give life and reality to the I more terrible narratives of which he had since read and heard—incidents on the road, deaths by the way, tragedies en route, during which the Czar had been relieved of many prisoners, the innocent and the. guilty, the hardened criminal and the spotless victim of his infernal rule. Philip had remembered the heavy rings that were riveted upon the legs ot the convicts, one for qach anji.le, united by a chain, whose fetters were linked with others holding groups or companies together to render the surveillance oi rfleir gpards easy and complete, as they held their weary way across the vast steppes into the Siberian wilds, where even Nature allied itself with the Czar to tormenc and kill them,

It did not require much knowledge or imagination to introduce into a group of the poor, wretched creatures that young student falling by the way, nor to bring a suffering

woman to his aid, nor to invoke the interposition of the brutal Cossack against both of them. This was the incident upon which Philip concentrated his mind and his brush, and to-day, having promised himself living models for these three figures* he still went on painting from memory, a touch here, a correction there.

Unconsciously he fouud that he was sketching himself as the dying student. Every touch he put into the figure made it more and more like him, but every touch upon the woman he rubbed out again. It was an inspiration, that woman’s face. He felt it as such, and now the fear took possession of him afresh that he would never be able to finish it. He therefore came to the wise conclusion not to touch the original sketch again, but to make new studies for any alterations in its development. The face took fresh possession of him as ha worked ; and when presently he began to think again of Dolly, and to picture in his mind the scene she had forecast of a floating gondola on the Grand Canal, with only they two and the gondolier in the moonlight, with music falling and rising in the sweet spring air, that face had gradually, as it were, eclipsed Dolly’s cheerful, love-inviting features, and it was at the feet of the strange woman he was sitting, and the music changed to the appealing and defiant straips of the mountain scene, with the loving maiden fresh from the innocent village and the dying. mother, and Philip again looked round the studio as if someone had come in without opening the door. Then with a sigh he laid down his brushes, and staggered, rather than walked, into an inner room, that was fitted up as part bedroom, part sitting-room and dressing-room, flung himself clown before a crucifix, and prayed with all his heait for guidance, for aid, and for comfort.

When he rose from his knees he returned to the studio, and paced to and fro in a steady, steadfast manner, occasionally ruuning hisffingers through his air, but uever pausing until after nearly an hour of this physical exercise—for ho was thinking and revolving all manner of ideas about himself, the picture, Dolly, and the woman of the opera-box—he drew a couch before the stove, lay down, and tired iu mind and body, drifted into that kind of sleep which Dickens speaks of as stealing upon us sometimes, and while it holds the body prisoner does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, but enables it to ramble as it pleases, Philip, resting with a sense of the happiness that comes with the redressing of every physical want, wandered, off into pleasanter dreams than those which had hitherto filled his waking mind. Once more it was Dolly at whose feet he reclined on the waters of that city of the ocean he had longed to visit, and which he was now to see for the first time in loving company, with blue eyes that would return his admiring gaze, with soft hands that would respond to the tender pressure of his own, his love and hers seb to glorious music, and basking in Italian sunshine. And so the time passed away. The sun had gone down, and the mists had fallen all over Primrose Hill when he awoke, his fire out, and only a faint glimmer of the gaslight from without showing him where he was, the half-waking sleep of his first hour having changed into a dreamless time, out of which he arose, however, cold, and feeling the prosaie sensations of hunger. At about the same time that he woke up Dick Chetwynd arrived at the Lodge. 4 Out’ was the answer.

‘Bub “In” and working,’ said Chetwynd. 4 Well, .yes, sir,’ said the porter’s wife, ‘and what we considers a little, he has had nothing to eat all day ; not rung his bell for nothing, and come ever so early.’ 4 Sure he has not gone out ?’ 4 Quite sere.’ 4 Then I think I might break the rules and see what he is about, eh?’ * Well, sir, you might, being his most intimate friend, and exonerating me and my husband. ’

• Quite so;’ said D.’ck, passing through the barrier and going straight to Philip’s quarters, which had a separate porch or passage way and were especially private and secluded. It was now too dark to see the legend 4 Out ’ upon the wicket, the gas lamp at the entrance only seeming to cast the door in darker shadow.’ ‘ What the mischief can he be at ?’ Dick said to himself, as he performed a stirring fantasia upon Philip’s knocker. The door was almost immediately opened, but the studio was in darkness, every blind down, the only light being a faint gleam from some outside lamp. * Hello !’ said Dick. 4 What's going on here?’ •I don’t know, I believe I am,’ said Philip. ‘ Come in, Chetwynd ; have you a match ?’ ‘ A iflatch, yes. What's the matter V ‘Nothing’s the matter,’ said Philip, 4 only that I have been to Bleep.’ ‘ What, all day long V asked Dick, lighting a match.

‘ I don’t know; I think I have, or else been dreaming. It is awfully good of you to come, old chap.’ Philip took the match from Dick, lighted a lamp, and shivered. *ls it not very cold ? What’s the time ?’ ‘lt is very cold, and the time is seven o’clock. You have not dined V ‘ No.'s said Philip. 4 That’s right,’ said Dicki * I have not. Come home with me.'

‘ My mother expects me to dinner.’ 4 No, she does not, I have seen her ; met her at Martinotti’s studio ; an exhibition of his models for the Garibaldi statue. I told her I should call for you and carry you off. But what have you been doiDg, my dear fellow? You are as white as Martinotti’s plaster !’ 4 1 have been trying tq work. 1 4 1 expected to find you radiant after what happened last night, 1 suppose the new impulse it has given to your ambition has set you working too hard to-day? You must not do that, I congratulate you, my dear boy; it is a most desirable match iu every way, 5 ‘ 1 hope so,’ said Philip. ‘You hope so, you young vac"* 1 -" Digk—hp pall** 1 *" ?’ said . mm a young vaga-

bond when he liked him most— * yon know it is.’ * She is a sweet girl,’ said Philip ; * I wish I was worthy of her.’ * Worthy ? Fiddlesticks ! Go now and let us be off ; you don't mean to say you have been here all day without luncheon, and not even opened your newspapers ! This will not do, Phi), eveu when a young fellow is in love. So you have been working on the sketch, have you ? Humph ! I don’t think I should touch it any more ; get at the picture, dear old chap, that’s the thing to do now. And I have tremendous news for you !’ * Indeed ?’ * Yes, dress, and I’ll tell you as we go to Dorset-square.’ Philip lighted another lamp, and went into the next room. ‘ I shall smoke while you dress.’ * AU right,’ said Philip, ‘but come in.' ‘ No, I shall amuse myself with the gold medal ; imagine you carrying it off, and huving a silk rope round the picture at Burlington House, or at another Gallery we wot of if yon like.’ ‘ But what is the news ?’ asked Philip, now busy dressing. _ ‘ Great news, Phil; the making of your picture. I shall not tell you until you are dressed.' Philijp, now thoroughly aroused, was fairly back again in the everyday world ; he put his head into the washing-bowl, and was soon all aglow, it did not take him ten minutes to dress, and the porter's wife answered the bell with unwonted alacrity. ‘ I have a hansom at the gate,’ said Dick, when Philip ordered the porter's wife to have one ordered. The attendant being gone. ‘Now,’ said Philip, 4 what is your news, Dick ?’ , . t ‘ Let me help you on with your overcoat; it’s a cold night, bright starlight, frosty ; you must not get a chill.’ * Oh, I’m all right,’ said Phil. * But you do not exactly belong to yourself any more, you know ; you have to take care, for Dolly’s sake.' ‘Very well,’ replied Phil, just a little impatiently ; ‘ let me shat the door; all right, mind the step.’ 1 bfcudio lights were burning in the windows, the married quarters of Hymen with the torch looking more cheerful than any of the other homes .of Art. There was a faint perfume of wallflowers from an adjacent window-box ; the porter’s lodge was radiant with a crackling and cheerful fire ; and in the street was a hansom with two white lamps, which were presently dancing along the Albert-road by Primrose Hill and away down Baker-stroet towards Dorset square. * And now, Phil,’ said Dick, turning to liis friend, ‘pull yourself together for the news.’ ‘ I have been doing that for the last half hour,’ said Philip. ‘ I have found her.' ‘ Great HeaveD, whom ? ’ exclaimed Philip ; his heart beating wildly in spite of himself. ‘Your ghost of Madame Lapukin. But more like Cleopatra than Lapukin, I fancy,’ 4 Do you mean the woman I saw at the opera ?’ 4 Who else could I mean ?’ * How do you know it is her ?’ * From your description and your portrait of her. A superb woman 1 But not half so melancholy as you make out ; and her hair is chestnut, not. red; a chestnut that will drive you crazy ; great violet eyes set in a colourless face of sesthetic loveliness ; but her mouth ! well, it is the mouth of Clytemnestra 1’

* It is not the same woman, Dick.’ ‘ Yes it is, and to-night you shall, see her and talk to her, and ask her to sit to you.' ‘And who is she then?’ Philip asked, 4 and why did she appear in Lady Marchmount’s box like a vision and disappear like a dream ?’

‘ You can ask her yourself. I saw her this morning at the Gallery; and she is the famous Russian Countess, Olga Stravensky.’ 4 And I thought she might have been a Nihilistic spy, the victim of some vile conspiracy,’ said Phil, in a tone of keen disappointment. 4 A Russian Countess ! To ask her to see my sketoh would be to insult her; to sit for that suffering angel she has inspired, an outrage. I don’t wish to see her.’

4 Oh, yes you do ! Here we are.’ The cab pulled up at one of the best houses in the Square, well known in art circles, a home of taste and social geniality. ‘ She is coming here after dinner ; and I have to thank you for the honour,’ said Dick, as he turned the latch with his key. * ‘ I told her all about you, and she shall sit for the medal.’

(To be continued.)