LITERATURE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 4307, 10 February 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

FROM THE GBAYE. (AH the Tear Sound.) At the bask of a large old-fashioned red brick house in the Soho district (London) , a spacious studio, lit by h glazed dome, had boon built orer what had beea once probably a walled-in London garden. A strong door, fastened by means of a heavy lock and bolt, and half -hidden by a dark-hued curtain of embossed velvst, opened from the studio on to a narrow back Btreet or mews. There were to be found, but in no excess, each artistic objects as the painters have always delighted to possess— weapons and armour, screens and draperies, specimens of carved oak, pictures framed and unframed, medieval furniture and accessories, with the indispensable dais or throne, for the due exhibition of Bitters and models. The floor waa only h ; ■ -fc carpeted. A large can- as rested upon a a •. «... ntial travelling oaken easel. A red iir .lowed in a capacious grate, emitting much hfat, yet leaving certain of the remote corners of the studio bJUek enough It was night ; the darkness ■without wrapped the glazed dome as in a cloak. The room within was but imperfectly lighted by »n oil lamp and by tallow candles burning in massive candlesticks of silver. Befor« tho fire, toasting his shapely gaiterc;l leg 3, sat. an elderly gentleman clothed in black, his attire of a pattern that has long years since passed out of vogue. _He wore powder in his carefully-arranged hair ; a pigtail jerked and strayed about the high collar ofhisooat. A watch-ribbon, carrying souls and keys, swung from his fob. Hl3 white ringed fingers were closed over a gold enuff* box. He waa dark-browed, and rather grave of expression ; hi 3 face was certainly handsome, though a good deal lined and puckered ; as characterised, moreover, by a certain birdlike aspect ; his nose took an aquiline ourve, and his eyes owned the keenness and brightness of a hawk's. His broad-brimmed, lowcrowned beaver hat rested upon a small spindle-leggod table beside him. A much younger m>n, slight of fijjur-3, fair-com-plexioned, with fine features, but rather worn and haggard of look, leant aga'r *t a corner of the mantelshelf. He wa3 c' lin a clareteoloured cloth suit, with dark-j-r. y stockings ; his buttons, knee and shoe buckles, were all of out steel. His nnpowdered hair, of an auburn hue, was so disposed aB to fall curling upon his forehead and almost to cover his temples. From where he Btood he could obtain a view of the large canvas uton the easel. He glanced at it uneasily from time to time, frith the air of a dissatisfied critic. The pictgore was incomplete; it represented an entombment. The young man waß, in truth, a painter by profession. The studio was bis ; he had been listening to certain unfavourable comments upon his handiwork, For his friend, Dr Dempster, had ventured to be critical. The young man moved from the fire-place to the easel, carrying the lamp with him ; he held it up bo that the light might fall fully upon his canvas ; and then stood still for some moments, I'rowningly considering it " You are perhaps right, doctor," he said at length, slowly and with a sigh. " I know I am right, Paul BenJiardt," observed the elder man; " it's my business to be right. I have not studied and practiced medicine and surgery all these long years to be wrong at last. For, look you, this is not simply a fineart questi?r, or I would hold my tongue. It ia rather a physical question ; it concerns natural philosophy, science, anatomy, physiology, fact. I am likely to be informed upon these Bubjectß." The doctor refreshed himself with a noisy pinch of snuff. " The figures are all drawn conscientiously and laboriously from the life, I do assure you," said Paul Beinhardt. " Yes ; you have justified your German origin, my friend," the doctor continued, "your work is grand and true ; you have not spared yourself ; jour figures are all, as you say, drawn conscientiously and laboriously from the life ; not a doubt of it ; but, my good friend, in this instance " — as he spoke the doctor pointed to the most prominent figure in the painter's composition — " it was not Life that you had need of ; it was Death." " You mean — — •" " That is simply a live model lying down in a position you have chosen for him ; he is not even asleep ; he is alive and awake ; those are not the limbs of a corpse ; those are not a dead man's muaclea ; that is not a dead man's hand ; the blood of life still couneß through those veins ; if I were to put my finger upon that wrist I should feel a healthy pulse beating." " But the colour ?" " Well, the colour ia livid, unwholesome, ghastly ; but does that sufficiently convey the idea of your picture, or does it merely demonstrate that you-«re not a colourist, my friend ? It strikes me that yon nave tainted all jour carnations alike with tones of clay, or of leather, or of nankeen ; if on* figure is dead, all are dead ; if one lives, ail lire." "Yon arc perhaps right, doctor," the young man said again after a pause, and with another sigb j " bat I think you hardly allow for the unavoidable limitations of art — the difficulties under which an artist labours ; I strive hard, I do assure you, to be true to nature, to be sincere in art ; it is the same thing almost ; but if I fail, I must fail ; I can only depict death from a living model, arranged in' a particular pose, such as, to my thinking, a dead body might reasonably and naturally be expected to as** -no." "I apprehend," said the doctor calmh', tapping his snuff-box, " that if death is to be accurately and faithfully pourtrayed, it muat be from a dead model." " That is easily said." " And easily done. Where is the difficulty ? My dear Paul, if I had peed of what we call a subject, do you think one would not be readily forthcoming ? Indeed, if I wanted a hundred subjects I should obtain them forthwith. As a rule, what is wanted is supplied. There is a price to be paid, of course. According to my experience, at every step in life there is a price to be paid, of one kind or of another ; for it is not invariably payable in money. Bnt it may ba you are so acoustomed to paint only from the quick, you would object to paint from the dead. That what is called your nature — by which term I understand the stomach simply to be signified — would revolt at such a proceeding." "If I do not think so," said the painter; "If I know myself, I should not hesitate to ply my brushes, even in the presence of the dead. Surely my hand would not fail me ; my eyes would not lose power of observing; my senfe, my reason would not abandon me ? I have no moral scruples on the subject." "I am glad of that. What we call moral scruples are often only silly prejudices in masquerade." "I am not timid, although I ch>*ira to make no foolish vaunt of courage." "No, you are not timid, my fri«nd ; but you own a certain element of imaginativeness. Sometimes, it seems to me that the very brave are merely the very stupid. They confront danger boldly because they fail to understand it. They have no mind's eye. They only see what is before them, and they see without fully comprehending. Men are often frightened, not simply by facts, bnt by the strange thoughts, dreams, and inventions tfcey weave round fact?, magnifying them and mystifying them. After all, what is a dead body ? To me it is nothing. We members of the healing art are so often face to face with death," he said with a grim smile, "we are for erer walking as it were over a battle-field. The bodies of those who have fallen in the great battle of life encompass us on every side. If we dootors have not absolutely slain them with our own hands, we have not saved them. 1 Should we fear the dead ? Should wo flinch and shiver and tremble when we pass them by or step over them ? Surely not. They are powerless for good or for evil, poor things. Yet they have their uses. Science has need of them. Why should they not serve art likewise ?" " I know no reason why they should not," answered th^ painter; " to me the dead are • subjects,' a- t said. We force death to betray to us < ortain of the secrets of life. We cut our way, literally, to the mysteries of nature. For us the dead speak, and to good and salutary purpose. Who is wronged? Well, possibly — I say, possibly — the grave is desecrated. Is that anything more than a manner of speaking— a lot phrase, without any particular significance? If bodies are wa'-'ri they must come from somewhere." The doctor looked at his • eh. "Near midnight," ho slid, "I did 1 . ihinkitwas an law. I grow old and garrulous, nnd upon somo topics, when I once begin, I cannot stop myself. But one word more. Is it to be aye or no?" "you mean—?" "Say ajo, and by thia time to-morrow, or lot me say in the couvio of to-morrow Di'ght, the model you and your picture have neod of s^ll be brought into jour etudio, shall bo lodr I boforo your oasel ; all shall be done secret.' .md silontly; I will charge mjaelf with ti > accomplishment of tho project ; it shall bo oarricd out

completely without your stirring ; you need not appear, you need speak no word ; but I pledge myself that you Bhall have your model ; all that I ask is that yon will be at once bold and prudent and calm, andthat you will leave thatdoor unlocked"— he pointed to the door whioh led from the Btudio into the mews—" or that you will be in readiness. to open it upon the instant you hear a tap upon it without ; you understand ? I see you do ; now, is it to be aye or no ?" "It is to be aye," said the painter firmly. "So be it, then ; good night, Paul Heinhardt." " Good night, Doctor Dempster." The doctor went hiß way. The painter sat musing before the fire, flo outstretched bis hands— they bad turned very cold — and warmed them over the ledhot embers. Presently he took up the lamp to inspect anew his large incomplete picture of the Entombment. Passing a small looking-glass filed against the wall, he glanced for a moment at tho reflection of himself. He started ; be had never before known himself to look so wan and pallid Twenty-four hours had passed. Paul Hsiubardt was alone ia his studio. His lamp was lighted, and the firo glowed again in his grate. He moved about uneasily ; now pausing before hi 3 pioture, and now examining and re-examining the lock and flints of a horse pistol that rested upon the mantelshelf. He looked not so much alarmed as anxious and BUBpicious. He knew that something strange was about to happen. He wa9 less certa ; n as to how ho should meet; and endure the coming event ; its shadow was already upon him. Frequently he consulted his watoh. He opened the door leading to the narrow street at the back of the houße and looked out, this vray and that. Ib was very dark. He held his breath that he might listen the better. All was very still. Stay! Surely he heard something. Footsteps ? No. A voice ? Yes. But it was only the echo of the watchman's cry, as, in a distav-t street, he announced the hour of the? right and the state of the weather. It was very cold ; a bitter wind blew down the narrow street. Paul Beinhardt with a shiver returned to his hearth, and stood there with one foot upon the fender, leaning against tho mantelshelf in his old attitude, his cut-steel buckles sparkling iv the firelight. "Can any accident haveocourred ?" he asked himself ; " has there been any mistake? Can the old doctor have failed to carry out his plan ?" He was trembling with nervous anxiety. Bnt now, he could not be deceived. The sounds, first of wheels, then of footsteps, of low-toned speech, were plainly audible. The door— it had been lefb unfastened—was pushed open slowly. Then appeared a man with his hat slouched over his face, and wearing a long, heavy, manycaped coat ; a large coloured handkerchief was wound loosely round his neck. For a moment he stood still, glancing round the studio, as though taking note of its contents. His eyeß met Paul Beinhardt's. The man raised a thick grimy forefinger, by way of signal. A thick-set, swarthy man, dark-eyed, black-browed, blue-chinned, coarse-featured. "By the doctor's order" he said in a hoarße whisper ; "a male subject — paid for. Is that right?" Paul Beinhardt nodded. The man withdrew for a moment ; a low whiatle was heard. Presently he reappeared with a companion assisting him. They carried a long and heavy burthen wrapped in a sheet of rough and ragged sackcloth of a dark hue. They ■ stood for a moment in doubt. Paul pointed to the dais. They rudely and rather noisily deposited, or rather flung down, there the thing that they had been carrying. " You will drink?" aßked Paul. Yes; they would drink; brandy, gip, usquebaugh, anything. They were not particular. Thereupon he took a bottle and glasses from a cabinet in a corner of the studio and gave them brandy. They emptied their glasses very promptly and prepared to go. 11 Stay," said Paul ; " one word more. There has been no foul play ?" " There has been no foul play, as far as^ know," calmly answered the man who had first entered the studio ; " the subject died a natural death— at least I suppose he did." "In a workhouse ?" " No— the case was urgent— we could hear of no workhouse subject suitable. Our order was very strict. But, there was a funeral this morning at 8t Pancridge'?. Our dread was lest there should be any one watching the grave. We get shot at sometimes— no one wants to be shot at if he can help it. But there were no watchers this time, and the daik night favoured us. We managed the business very comfortably." " Let me fill your glasses again." They drank more and more brandy. He gave them money; they departed; the painter closing, locking and bolting the door behind them. He listened; he could hear their footsteps, the grinding of wheels, the tramp of a horse's hoofs. They had gone. Paul Beinhardt was left alone with the dead body. It was with an effort he induced himself to approach it. His face was very pallid, his fingers trembled curiously as he lightly raised the eack'cloth sheet and tossed it on one side, and gazed at the figure it had wrapped and concealed. " A man of my own age mueed the painter, " and about my height. Well-formed, symmetrical, muscular, with short curling dark hair. He must have been handsome, I think. Surely he has not been long dead. How pale he is — how very pale. Yes," he added, as he caught sight of his reflection in the glass, ■' not paler than I am, I think ; no one could well be paler than that. How cold and dark and stiff are hi) hands. How cold he is here about bis heart. Yet, I should have thought death would have been colder. What has this man's life been ? What brought him to the grave whence he has been but now so rudely torn ? He had not lived so very many years in the world. Was his life happiness to him? Did he love much? Was he loved? Was he loath to die? Who can tell? His lips are closed for ever. The story of his life— if it had a story — is a secret that will never be told. Do I know the man? No. A face like that, it seems to me, that I may have seen somewhere, at some time. But not that face. No. Ido not know the man." (To be continued.)