SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 2516, 4 June 1902, Page 74

SHORT STORIES.

THE DAUGHTER OE THE PAINTER PALISA.

(By Johx Begnatji/t Ellysox.)

-One morning, in perhaps the most picturesque corner of London, young Merron toaused and looked at the handsome dwelling in front of him, where he became so absorbed that he did not observe a gentleman — none ether than Palisa — who, also [pausing near at hand, regarded him with an amused expression. "Now, -what do yoti tliink of it, my little friend?" "I like it." "Because it's odd?"' "No ; because it's beautiful.*' "Ah!" "Tell me. if you please, who lives here?" "An old fool who paints pictures.'' "I beg pardon, sir, ' said the lad, in his frank, quaint, grave way, "but people who paint pictures are no fools." "Indeed ! Well, as you like the house, come in and look round a while,'' said JPalisa. Merron went in — and remained there. Palisa was a somewhat unconventional person, yet genial in the main, charming and warm-hearted. Son of an artist and an actress, it is said that in youth he showed jprofound passion for his father's art, but Jfchat, subsequently estranged from one »arent, he followed the other on the Italian fetage and won distinction ; that he married pt 30 a lady of great fortune, left the stage, Jtook up his residence in London, and rekumed the fascinating studies of his earlier 'days. Into his conceptions, the pictorial poetry of an idealist, he infused indiividuality and rare imagination, and his successes were numerous. Some have doubted )whether his works merited the high praise khey received, but few have denied his exceptional powers. His years were devoted jto his art, to his home life, to his friends — a. distinguished group of men, romancers, moets, artists — and the single great affliction that befell him -was his -wife's death, just after the birth of her only child, i Merron- pleased Palisa'e faney — this fair )md sad-eyed lad, well-mannered and brightHvitted. He admired what he saw ; he tasked discreet questions ; he listened earnestly ; he betrayed his modest qualities. •He Ifcold his story with simplicity, and that bight Palisa repeated it briefly to a friend in these words: "His father — you remember Merron, the engraver? — died two years Rgo ; the young fellow buried his mother Within the last -week. He has inherited piatural gifts from bsth, and nothing more. He is 12 years old, and I shall see what I Jean do with him." 1 So, iD the beginning, he roused Palisa's Interest and affection. He found more than a father in the artist — he found a master capable of directing and developing bis talents. He thanked his good fortune Ln a way tha,t men appreciate — by deep by close application, by constant regard to wise teachings ; in a word, by toutting his soul into every task. He performed a great deal more than was expected of him ; he surmounted difficulties jwith ease, and seemed possessed of untiring energies. .During four years he made considerable progress. And then — somehow came months in which very little was done. Ardour Abated ; he had long, dull days ; old themes, Sold ideals failed to excite. There were periods of fitful indifference, of indolent 'dreaming, of restlessness ; periods in which Jiothing stimulated, nothing quite stirred ■Slim ; periods that were rare at the outlet, but then recurred more frequently and grew more pronounced. Palisa, patient, sagacious, always watchful, chimed in with Jhis mcods, offered novel recreations and awaited the hour of rekindling. Yet but little was achieved ; it was a season of .curious inertia. At the end of the year Merron saw Palisa's daughter for the first time. The lather had often spoken of her, endearingly but vaguely. She made her appearance Suddenly, coming fresh from one of those Italian convents, where a quiet and joyous life is unfolded, and education goes on far from the world's diversion. In the midst tof the spirited girls and the amiable nuns "She had lost nothing of real animation, tof her high-strung, nervous nature, of her nobleness of character ; she had, besides, grown strong, new-moulded, very accomplished and much more beautiful. ■ The coming of Camilla into the household -was like the sunlight of springtide. She was an exceedingly charming child, indeed, scarcely more than 15 ; a little more mature than that age would imply, lhanks to the air o. Italy. However, there Jiras less of the woman than of the nymph ia the contour of the form ; there were lines of choice loveliness in the pure oval Df the face — virginal warmth in its tinge tof olive, innocence and infinite laughter in the unrivalled, brown, clear, large eyes. 'Ardent and impulsive by nature, her manners, as if having caught some of the cloisteral calm, had an ease and an elegance suggestive oidy of the most restful and sympathetic image?. As all fathers do under like circumstances, Palisa opened for her the treasures of his heart. He passed delighted under the new influence. He humoured her, he petted her, lie caressed her ; he amused himself in amusing her ; he grew witty or sentimental as occasion varied, and entered into her moods as unerringly as a lover. How cculd it be otherwise, in fact, seeing in the child, as he did, the witcheries of the mother — the woman whom lie had adored? But the effect of the girl's presence on Merron was little less than enchantment. ■It was as if the clouds had broken and divided — as if he had received light from beyond. The period of indifference and indolence ended, the spirit of ambition, of strange activity, flushed anew and revived. There was more than love; "isie was an

The spell of slumber now lifted, he worked •with fervour undreamed of, with rapturous pleasure. He saw clearly what hitherto had been dimmed or obscured. His insight got to be incredibly keen. With new vision, too, came new conceptions. He created with astonishing ease. Often the indefinite line, the vivid tint, was laid in the flash of a thought, for the power of execution had kept pace with the cieative power.

In the space of another 12 months the youth made prodigious advances and secured the unstinted" praise of Palisa,. and his invaluable suggestions. Near the close of the same year, putting other things by, he chose a, theme out of the Arthurian legend and began a painting known long after as "Tidings from Sir Tristram." He realised the fair scene of the past, shadowing forth a strange chambered alcove in the Castle Tintagil under the full, unshadowed light of noon, a sumptuous recess with a single living figure, the beautiful figure of hie master's daughter, and he aimed at expressing in her person the joy of "La Belle Isoude' over the glad assurance from Sir Tristram that, though then imprisoned for treason, he would soon again be free, and his desire that she make ready and quit King Mark forever, and flee for love and refuge into England. On this design, Merron, in depicting an episode that touched his heart, lavished all hie energies.

It was while the work was being executed that Palisa, it seemed, discovered the attachment between his daughter and his pupil. He said not a word on the subject; there was at first scarcely any perceptible change in his manner. He showed his love for them in a thousand ways ; he was courteous and convivial and kind ; but he let it be seen that he frowned on their infatuation. He followed them, perhaps, with more eager eyes ; he ingeniously kept them much apart. He appeared opposed to the development of this reciprocal feeling, of this perfectly natural emotion, making it manifest that for each he had some other and peculiar end in view.

The sensitive lovers grieved in secret, talked of Palisa's mute disapproval, asked vainly what could be his aims, wondered why he, so tender, so considerate in all else, should look with disfavour on affection so innocent and so sincere. Lovers such as they are not interpreters of emotion other than their own ; they possess no spirit of the seers. To them, therefore, Palisa was unreadable.

Twice in the brief space of an evening he came suddenly to them, and gently detached her hand from the grasp of the pupil's fingers, and each time fixed on them a very significant glance. From that day his manner changed. He had less to say ; he seemed constantly deep in thought. He did not trouble himself to disguise his irritation, but, though thus far he neither did nor said anything uncivil or unseemly, he certainly displayed in his intercourse with them none of his accustomed perfect delicacy.

In one way all this worked well. Proud, noble, stung to the quick, Merron secretly rebelled, yet wavered in purpose, conceived many lines of conduct, pursued none of them, grew moody, brooded, but all the while he poured his whole strength into his task, and showed thereby at least a mastery of every resource in his art.

Some time elapsed. Meanwhile, day by day, Palisa conducted himself more curiously and grew more peevish and unreasonable. _ His perversities were never so marked as at breakfast one morning in May. Nothing pleased him. » < uen not self-absorbed and sullen he was pettish and cold. Small things were made much of. He spoke provokingly of the manner in which Merron greeted his daughter. The mode in which she had arranged her hair received churlish comment. Nor did his favourite dog escape ; his ears were cruelly pinched for the common privilege of nestling at his knees. His chair at the table was undusted ; he expected, he said, soon to discover cobwebs everywhere. For a mere misstep the old servant was threatened with dismissal and ordered out of the room. If his ill-temper had been habitual the scene would have been comic ; but it was serious because so very unusual. There was a fly-speck on the sugar-tongs, he took care to show, and the fringe of his napkin, was tangled. He put aside his coffee ; the cream had turned its flavour. He found fault with the butter and the muffins, both of which were delicious.

This pettishness was so novel that the young people frequently exchanged glances. Palisa caught them once in the act, and used a very coarse sneer. Had he used a blow he could not have caused more pain, more astonishment. After that they scarcely knew what might be expected. Was some dormant Italian passion wakening? Would other insults follow? Would it all end there that morning in a storm? No ; they experienced a surprise of a different kind. Immediately after breakfast Palisa left the room, returned dressed for the street, and took occasion to say that he was going out on important business and would be gone until evening. In the brusque manner that he had recently adopted he defined what must be ijone in his absence ; Camilla should perfect herself in several of Chopin's caprices — since she jjlayed them so abominably — and Merron should consume the day before his canvas alone in the studio.

When Palisa closed the door the shadow was lifted, the darkness was gone. The lovers 6tood for a moment in doubt, smiling and wondering, as children in a world newly opened round them. They breathed low, and prattled and touched hands. Outside were the leaves and the blooms of May, the quivering sunbeams, the balmy air. Inside there were beauty and inspiration and love, a threefold magic. "First, Camilla, you lend light to my task," said he, "and then I'll lighten yours."

"Yes ; it shall be so," she an&wered "We'll paint firet and then play."' It .struck 9 as they entered the studio.

Just at noon, Pallia, coming into the hon^e, took his way towards the ving that framed the btudio. The door of the apnt-

—as noiselessly as the light that fell ' through the glass-squares in the roof or through the windows. On the easel in front of 'him stood the painting known as "Tidings from Sir Tristram" — the painting on which had been stored treasures of colour and skill — complete, perfected, as luminous as a flawless, strange opal, as harmonious as the parts of some vast rose. This was the picture on which first he gazed, but there was another that soon caught the eyes of Palisa. From his position he could regard it unobserved. The daik piece of old tapestry, hanging by chance over a screen, composed the background ; there were two figures in the foreground, one seated in a large chair, the other on the arm of it. Both were beautiful, silent, deep in reverie, grouped as an artist wo aid wish. It was such a picture as the heart loves — its life was Nature's and its light was heaven's. When he had dwelt on this sufficiently Palifa made two strides forward, and the movement brought him abruptly in full view of his daughter and his pupil. For them it was a terrible vision that rose. The girl uttered a startled cry ; the youth recoiled from the arm of the chair. Palisa, standing erect, pale and sinister, kept his gaze fixed on them ; Lis eyes, out of which every trace of gentleness had faded, darkened and flashed, resembling the eyes of an animal rather than those of a man. He seemed incapable of speech, but the 100k — that look fell on them just as the' blade of a poniard falls. The girl glanced up anew, and shuddered. The youth, humiliated, abashed for the moment, rallied after he began to realise that the simplest net had been laid and that he had been caught therein. Pride dictating that he should make the best of his position, he assumed a certain air of honest defiance. Palisa approached, moved a chair near them, seated himself, crossed one leg over the other, leaned a little back and folded his arms. He had noted the action of the youth. "That's excellent, truly excellent!" he said at last. "It's exactly what I thought ; indeed, exactly what I anticipated. You practise clever tricks, and when the rendering of an account comes, you strike an attitude." Merron's lips moved, but something hung in his throat, and he ran his fingers inside his collar that he might lessen the pressure there. "Pluck off your neck-scarf, my admirable young friend, if you are warm, but have a caie and keep your teeth closed. When one has no defence it is wise to be mute. Remember, it is you who bring about the present conditions— not I. Thank yourself, therefore, and not me. You dally as you go ; you neglect all sense of propriety ; you disregard my rights. You know my wishes, and you ignore them. You slip from folly to "folly, from folly even to ripe madness. Necessarily, it seems, you must have an affair of love on your hands, but no ordinary affair then suffices ! You seek cut my daughter as the object of this amour "' Merron, stung by the word and the tone in which it was uttered, flushed, advanced, would have spoken. Palisa scowled. "Back to your place and be silent!' 1 he interposed. "Back at once, I say! I'm not yet done. This isn't all — it's only the beginning. You go still further. You lay your snares, you plot against my interests and my child's. There, attempt no denial! Nay, what is" truer? Nothing is more unanswerable. It is part of your plan so far to beguile my daughter and pervert her judgment that you may easily rob me of her. Crafty tactics, strategies, plots — plots, I say — against an old man who gave you hi 6 open palm six years ago. Ah, you have fine, wild dreams ! I know them ; I know your most secret devices as well, and it pleases me at this moment to tell you how I have come by that knowledge. "I began life," continued Palka, "on the Italian stage, and in those days it was thought that I had .some talent. An actor with talent, I need scaicely say, can thoroughly invest himself with another's character, with another's personality ; and of course the better the actor the better this is done. Fully aware of your temperament, of your qualities, I had only to put. myself in your shoes and give myself your surroundings in order to discover all your thoughts, your motives, your secret schemes. Ac you have gone from point to point iv your little drama, I have followed, step by step, with the same arguments, the same irrational reasonings, concocting the same absurd plans. I tell you this now because I wish you to understand that I am not altogether the dullard you took me for, and that at present I am keenly alive to the necessity of ending this comedy — this comedy of yours and mine." Palisa paused. His eyes passed from the face of the one to the face of the other — eyes in which there was the cold, gray glitter of ruffled waters. The girl sobbed ; the youth doubted the sanity of the old artist. "I have merely one word to add," said Palisa. "Listen. There is one of two courses you can pursue, either one of two courses. You may, if you please, take up your trappings and be gone, or you may remain — just as you think fit. I speak to you, Camilla, and to you, Merron. Choose now." Camilla, lifting her head quickly, gazed blankly at her father through her tears ; Merron leaned against the edge of her chair and brushed his hand across his brow. Both v.-ere curiously stirred afresh, bewildered ; both seriously questioned the evidence of their ears and eyes,lfor in his final words Palisa had contrived to infuse a wonderful softness of tone. a sweet mockery and charm that made the phrases sound like strange music, and at the same time the expression of his face had changed and grown fair vith familiar light. "Oh, father!" "My dear master !" "Dehcious fools! So I could >f thiough the mask you wore, but you coi'Mn't see through mi.iL'. Come, I am hungry for ! yjuu: ki.ssp.Ht Dqa± xqv, kj&w. x lake xsm.

above all else, more than the world, more than life. Ah, I have watched you with such rare pleasure! I have turned away so often that I might not show you my heart."

"Why, dear master, why should I have doubted you?" "Why should you not. my boy?" "But you were cruel, father, so cruel !' : "Softly, my lady of reproaches. Did you. therefore, love the rogue the less?'' She shook her beautiful head and smiled.

"There were two motives," said Palisa, "two motives that swayed me. One, a fancy to play a part once more as «: my younger days — a fool's fancy ,- and the other — 2an you guess the other, my dear?" "I think — no, no, I cannot guess," "Well, certainly, then you don't understand Merron as I do."

"I don't understand Merron!"

"No ; not as I do, at least. To a youth of his temperament, the darker the clouds are the more fire he draws from them ; the brain kindles ; he sees a multitude of things that no one else perceives ; he becomes charged with rhythmic thought — inspired. If a warrior, he fights ; if a pcet, he sings ; if an artist, he paints. There! look at that picture! Where is a splash of colour needed? What tint or light or line or touch could better it?" "See, father, see how the blood dances in bis cheek!"

"Yes, look at him — a handsome devil, and just 18, this lover, this rebel, this painter! And what has he done?" "Ah, he has made you happy, and me !" "More, much more, besides. He has done what few in many thousands ever succeed in doing — he has achieved a masterpiece at the very beginning of his career!'