CHAPTER III--HIS BROWN-PAPER PARCEL
My works are well known. I am a young man in the Art line. You
have seen my works many a time, though it's fifty thousand to one if
you have seen me. You say you don't want to see me? You say your
interest is in my works, and not in me? Don't be too sure about
that. Stop a bit.
Let us have it down in black and white at the first go off, so that
there may be no unpleasantness or wrangling afterwards. And this is
looked over by a friend of mine, a ticket writer, that is up to
literature. I am a young man in the Art line--in the Fine-Art line.
You have seen my works over and over again, and you have been
curious about me, and you think you have seen me. Now, as a safe
rule, you never have seen me, and you never do see me, and you never
will see me. I think that's plainly put--and it's what knocks me
over.
If there's a blighted public character going, I am the party.
It has been remarked by a certain (or an uncertain,) philosopher,
that the world knows nothing of its greatest men. He might have put
it plainer if he had thrown his eye in my direction. He might have
put it, that while the world knows something of them that apparently
go in and win, it knows nothing of them that really go in and don't
win. There it is again in another form--and that's what knocks me
over.
Not that it's only myself that suffers from injustice, but that I am
more alive to my own injuries than to any other man's. Being, as I
have mentioned, in the Fine-Art line, and not the Philanthropic
line, I openly admit it. As to company in injury, I have company
enough. Who are you passing every day at your Competitive
Excruciations? The fortunate candidates whose heads and livers you
have turned upside down for life? Not you. You are really passing
the Crammers and Coaches. If your principle is right, why don't you
turn out to-morrow morning with the keys of your cities on velvet
cushions, your musicians playing, and your flags flying, and read
addresses to the Crammers and Coaches on your bended knees,
beseeching them to come out and govern you? Then, again, as to your
public business of all sorts, your Financial statements and your
Budgets; the Public knows much, truly, about the real doers of all
that! Your Nobles and Right Honourables are first-rate men? Yes,
and so is a goose a first-rate bird. But I'll tell you this about
the goose;--you'll find his natural flavour disappointing, without
stuffing.
Perhaps I am soured by not being popular? But suppose I AM popular.
Suppose my works never fail to attract. Suppose that, whether they
are exhibited by natural light or by artificial, they invariably
draw the public. Then no doubt they are preserved in some
Collection? No, they are not; they are not preserved in any
Collection. Copyright? No, nor yet copyright. Anyhow they must be
somewhere? Wrong again, for they are often nowhere.
Says you, "At all events, you are in a moody state of mind, my
friend." My answer is, I have described myself as a public
character with a blight upon him--which fully accounts for the
curdling of the milk in THAT cocoa-nut.
Those that are acquainted with London are aware of a locality on the
Surrey side of the river Thames, called the Obelisk, or, more
generally, the Obstacle. Those that are not acquainted with London
will also be aware of it, now that I have named it. My lodging is
not far from that locality. I am a young man of that easy
disposition, that I lie abed till it's absolutely necessary to get
up and earn something, and then I lie abed again till I have spent
it.
It was on an occasion when I had had to turn to with a view to
victuals, that I found myself walking along the Waterloo Road, one
evening after dark, accompanied by an acquaintance and fellow-lodger
in the gas-fitting way of life. He is very good company, having
worked at the theatres, and, indeed, he has a theatrical turn
himself, and wishes to be brought out in the character of Othello;
but whether on account of his regular work always blacking his face
and hands more or less, I cannot say.
"Tom," he says, "what a mystery hangs over you!"
"Yes, Mr. Click"--the rest of the house generally give him his name,
as being first, front, carpeted all over, his own furniture, and if
not mahogany, an out-and-out imitation--"yes, Mr. Click, a mystery
does hang over me."
"Makes you low, you see, don't it?" says he, eyeing me sideways.
"Why, yes, Mr. Click, there are circumstances connected with it that
have," I yielded to a sigh, "a lowering effect."
"Gives you a touch of the misanthrope too, don't it?" says he.
"Well, I'll tell you what. If I was you, I'd shake it of."
"If I was you, I would, Mr. Click; but, if you was me, you
wouldn't."
"Ah!" says he, "there's something in that."
When we had walked a little further, he took it up again by touching
me on the chest.
"You see, Tom, it seems to me as if, in the words of the poet who
wrote the domestic drama of The Stranger, you had a silent sorrow
there."
"I have, Mr. Click."
"I hope, Tom," lowering his voice in a friendly way, "it isn't
coining, or smashing?"
"No, Mr. Click. Don't be uneasy."
"Nor yet forg- " Mr. Click checked himself, and added,
"counterfeiting anything, for instance?"
"No, Mr. Click. I am lawfully in the Art line--Fine-Art line--but I
can say no more."
"Ah! Under a species of star? A kind of malignant spell? A sort
of a gloomy destiny? A cankerworm pegging away at your vitals in
secret, as well as I make it out?" said Mr. Click, eyeing me with
some admiration.
I told Mr. Click that was about it, if we came to particulars; and I
thought he appeared rather proud of me.
Our conversation had brought us to a crowd of people, the greater
part struggling for a front place from which to see something on the
pavement, which proved to be various designs executed in coloured
chalks on the pavement stones, lighted by two candles stuck in mud
sconces. The subjects consisted of a fine fresh salmon's head and
shoulders, supposed to have been recently sent home from the
fishmonger's; a moonlight night at sea (in a circle); dead game;
scroll-work; the head of a hoary hermit engaged in devout
contemplation; the head of a pointer smoking a pipe; and a cherubim,
his flesh creased as in infancy, going on a horizontal errand
against the wind. All these subjects appeared to me to be
exquisitely done.
On his knees on one side of this gallery, a shabby person of modest
appearance who shivered dreadfully (though it wasn't at all cold),
was engaged in blowing the chalk-dust off the moon, toning the
outline of the back of the hermit's head with a bit of leather, and
fattening the down-stroke of a letter or two in the writing. I have
forgotten to mention that writing formed a part of the composition,
and that it also--as it appeared to me--was exquisitely done. It
ran as follows, in fine round characters: "An honest man is the
noblest work of God. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0. Pounds s. d. Employment
in an office is humbly requested. Honour the Queen. Hunger is a 0
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 sharp thorn. Chip chop, cherry chop, fol de rol
de ri do. Astronomy and mathematics. I do this to support my
family."
Murmurs of admiration at the exceeding beauty of this performance
went about among the crowd. The artist, having finished his
touching (and having spoilt those places), took his seat on the
pavement, with his knees crouched up very nigh his chin; and
halfpence began to rattle in.
"A pity to see a man of that talent brought so low; ain't it?" said
one of the crowd to me.
"What he might have done in the coach-painting, or house-
decorating!" said another man, who took up the first speaker because
I did not.
"Why, he writes--alone--like the Lord Chancellor!" said another man.
"Better," said another. "I know his writing. He couldn't support
his family this way."
Then, a woman noticed the natural fluffiness of the hermit's hair,
and another woman, her friend, mentioned of the salmon's gills that
you could almost see him gasp. Then, an elderly country gentleman
stepped forward and asked the modest man how he executed his work?
And the modest man took some scraps of brown paper with colours in
'em out of his pockets, and showed them. Then a fair-complexioned
donkey, with sandy hair and spectacles, asked if the hermit was a
portrait? To which the modest man, casting a sorrowful glance upon
it, replied that it was, to a certain extent, a recollection of his
father. This caused a boy to yelp out, "Is the Pinter a smoking the
pipe your mother?" who was immediately shoved out of view by a
sympathetic carpenter with his basket of tools at his back.
At every fresh question or remark the crowd leaned forward more
eagerly, and dropped the halfpence more freely, and the modest man
gathered them up more meekly. At last, another elderly gentleman
came to the front, and gave the artist his card, to come to his
office to-morrow, and get some copying to do. The card was
accompanied by sixpence, and the artist was profoundly grateful,
and, before he put the card in his hat, read it several times by the
light of his candles to fix the address well in his mind, in case he
should lose it. The crowd was deeply interested by this last
incident, and a man in the second row with a gruff voice growled to
the artist, "You've got a chance in life now, ain't you?" The
artist answered (sniffing in a very low-spirited way, however), "I'm
thankful to hope so." Upon which there was a general chorus of "You
are all right," and the halfpence slackened very decidedly.
I felt myself pulled away by the arm, and Mr. Click and I stood
alone at the corner of the next crossing.
"Why, Tom," said Mr. Click, "what a horrid expression of face you've
got!"
"Have I?" says I.
"Have you?" says Mr. Click. "Why, you looked as if you would have
his blood."
"Whose blood?"
"The artist's."
"The artist's?" I repeated. And I laughed, frantically, wildly,
gloomily, incoherently, disagreeably. I am sensible that I did. I
know I did.
Mr. Click stared at me in a scared sort of a way, but said nothing
until we had walked a street's length. He then stopped short, and
said, with excitement on the part of his forefinger:
"Thomas, I find it necessary to be plain with you. I don't like the
envious man. I have identified the cankerworm that's pegging away
at YOUR vitals, and it's envy, Thomas."
"Is it?" says I.
"Yes, it is," says be. "Thomas, beware of envy. It is the green-
eyed monster which never did and never will improve each shining
hour, but quite the reverse. I dread the envious man, Thomas. I
confess that I am afraid of the envious man, when he is so envious
as you are. Whilst you contemplated the works of a gifted rival,
and whilst you heard that rival's praises, and especially whilst you
met his humble glance as he put that card away, your countenance was
so malevolent as to be terrific. Thomas, I have heard of the envy
of them that follows the Fine-Art line, but I never believed it
could be what yours is. I wish you well, but I take my leave of
you. And if you should ever got into trouble through knifeing--or
say, garotting--a brother artist, as I believe you will, don't call
me to character, Thomas, or I shall be forced to injure your case."
Mr. Click parted from me with those words, and we broke off our
acquaintance.
I became enamoured. Her name was Henrietta. Contending with my
easy disposition, I frequently got up to go after her. She also
dwelt in the neighbourhood of the Obstacle, and I did fondly hope
that no other would interpose in the way of our union.
To say that Henrietta was volatile is but to say that she was woman.
To say that she was in the bonnet-trimming is feebly to express the
taste which reigned predominant in her own.
She consented to walk with me. Let me do her the justice to say
that she did so upon trial. "I am not," said Henrietta, "as yet
prepared to regard you, Thomas, in any other light than as a friend;
but as a friend I am willing to walk with you, on the understanding
that softer sentiments may flow."
We walked.
Under the influence of Henrietta's beguilements, I now got out of
bed daily. I pursued my calling with an industry before unknown,
and it cannot fail to have been observed at that period, by those
most familiar with the streets of London, that there was a larger
supply. But hold! The time is not yet come!
One evening in October I was walking with Henrietta, enjoying the
cool breezes wafted over Vauxhall Bridge. After several slow turns,
Henrietta gaped frequently (so inseparable from woman is the love of
excitement), and said, "Let's go home by Grosvenor Place,
Piccadilly, and Waterloo"--localities, I may state for the
information of the stranger and the foreigner, well known in London,
and the last a Bridge.
"No. Not by Piccadilly, Henrietta," said I.
"And why not Piccadilly, for goodness' sake?" said Henrietta.
Could I tell her? Could I confess to the gloomy presentiment that
overshadowed me? Could I make myself intelligible to her? No.
"I don't like Piccadilly, Henrietta."
"But I do," said she. "It's dark now, and the long rows of lamps in
Piccadilly after dark are beautiful. I WILL go to Piccadilly!"
Of course we went. It was a pleasant night, and there were numbers
of people in the streets. It was a brisk night, but not too cold,
and not damp. Let me darkly observe, it was the best of all nights-
-FOR THE PURPOSE.
As we passed the garden wall of the Royal Palace, going up Grosvenor
Place, Henrietta murmured:
"I wish I was a Queen!"
"Why so, Henrietta?"
"I would make YOU Something," said she, and crossed her two hands on
my arm, and turned away her head.
Judging from this that the softer sentiments alluded to above had
begun to flow, I adapted my conduct to that belief. Thus happily we
passed on into the detested thoroughfare of Piccadilly. On the
right of that thoroughfare is a row of trees, the railing of the
Green Park, and a fine broad eligible piece of pavement.
"Oh my!" cried Henrietta presently. "There's been an accident!"
I looked to the left, and said, "Where, Henrietta?"
"Not there, stupid!" said she. "Over by the Park railings. Where
the crowd is. Oh no, it's not an accident, it's something else to
look at! What's them lights?"
She referred to two lights twinkling low amongst the legs of the
assemblage: two candles on the pavement.
"Oh, do come along!" cried Henrietta, skipping across the road with
me. I hung back, but in vain. "Do let's look!"
Again, designs upon the pavement. Centre compartment, Mount
Vesuvius going it (in a circle), supported by four oval
compartments, severally representing a ship in heavy weather, a
shoulder of mutton attended by two cucumbers, a golden harvest with
distant cottage of proprietor, and a knife and fork after nature;
above the centre compartment a bunch of grapes, and over the whole a
rainbow. The whole, as it appeared to me, exquisitely done.
The person in attendance on these works of art was in all respects,
shabbiness excepted, unlike the former personage. His whole
appearance and manner denoted briskness. Though threadbare, he
expressed to the crowd that poverty had not subdued his spirit, or
tinged with any sense of shame this honest effort to turn his
talents to some account. The writing which formed a part of his
composition was conceived in a similarly cheerful tone. It breathed
the following sentiments: "The writer is poor, but not despondent.
To a British 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 Public he Pounds S. d. appeals.
Honour to our brave Army! And also 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 to our
gallant Navy. BRITONS STRIKE the A B C D E F G writer in common
chalks would be grateful for any suitable employment HOME! HURRAH!"
The whole of this writing appeared to me to be exquisitely done.
But this man, in one respect like the last, though seemingly hard at
it with a great show of brown paper and rubbers, was only really
fattening the down-stroke of a letter here and there, or blowing the
loose chalk off the rainbow, or toning the outside edge of the
shoulder of mutton. Though he did this with the greatest
confidence, he did it (as it struck me) in so ignorant a manner, and
so spoilt everything he touched, that when he began upon the purple
smoke from the chimney of the distant cottage of the proprietor of
the golden harvest (which smoke was beautifully soft), I found
myself saying aloud, without considering of it:
"Let that alone, will you?"
"Halloa!" said the man next me in the crowd, jerking me roughly from
him with his elbow, "why didn't you send a telegram? If we had
known you was coming, we'd have provided something better for you.
You understand the man's work better than he does himself, don't
you? Have you made your will? You're too clever to live long."
"Don't be hard upon the gentleman, sir," said the person in
attendance on the works of art, with a twinkle in his eye as he
looked at me; "he may chance to be an artist himself. If so, sir,
he will have a fellow-feeling with me, sir, when I"--he adapted his
action to his words as he went on, and gave a smart slap of his
hands between each touch, working himself all the time about and
about the composition--"when I lighten the bloom of my grapes--shade
off the orange in my rainbow--dot the i of my Britons--throw a
yellow light into my cow-cum-BER--insinuate another morsel of fat
into my shoulder of mutton--dart another zigzag flash of lightning
at my ship in distress!"
He seemed to do this so neatly, and was so nimble about it, that the
halfpence came flying in.
"Thanks, generous public, thanks!" said the professor. "You will
stimulate me to further exertions. My name will be found in the
list of British Painters yet. I shall do better than this, with
encouragement. I shall indeed."
"You never can do better than that bunch of grapes," said Henrietta.
"Oh, Thomas, them grapes!"
"Not better than THAT, lady? I hope for the time when I shall paint
anything but your own bright eyes and lips equal to life."
"(Thomas, did you ever?) But it must take a long time, sir," said
Henrietta, blushing, "to paint equal to that."
"I was prenticed to it, miss," said the young man, smartly touching
up the composition--"prenticed to it in the caves of Spain and
Portingale, ever so long and two year over."
There was a laugh from the crowd; and a new man who had worked
himself in next me, said, "He's a smart chap, too; ain't he?"
"And what a eye!" exclaimed Henrietta softly.
"Ah! He need have a eye," said the man.
"Ah! He just need," was murmured among the crowd.
"He couldn't come that 'ere burning mountain without a eye," said
the man. He had got himself accepted as an authority, somehow, and
everybody looked at his finger as it pointed out Vesuvius. "To come
that effect in a general illumination would require a eye; but to
come it with two dips--why, it's enough to blind him!"
That impostor, pretending not to have heard what was said, now
winked to any extent with both eyes at once, as if the strain upon
his sight was too much, and threw back his long hair--it was very
long--as if to cool his fevered brow. I was watching him doing it,
when Henrietta suddenly whispered, "Oh, Thomas, how horrid you
look!" and pulled me out by the arm.
Remembering Mr. Click's words, I was confused when I retorted, "What
do you mean by horrid?"
"Oh gracious! Why, you looked," said Henrietta, "as if you would
have his blood."
I was going to answer, "So I would, for twopence--from his nose,"
when I checked myself and remained silent.
We returned home in silence. Every step of the way, the softer
sentiments that had flowed, ebbed twenty mile an hour. Adapting my
conduct to the ebbing, as I had done to the flowing, I let my arm
drop limp, so as she could scarcely keep hold of it, and I wished
her such a cold good-night at parting, that I keep within the bounds
of truth when I characterise it as a Rasper.
In the course of the next day I received the following document:
"Henrietta informs Thomas that my eyes are open to you. I must ever
wish you well, but walking and us is separated by an unfarmable
abyss. One so malignant to superiority--Oh that look at him!--can
never never conduct
HENRIETTA
P.S.--To the altar."
Yielding to the easiness of my disposition, I went to bed for a
week, after receiving this letter. During the whole of such time,
London was bereft of the usual fruits of my labour. When I resumed
it, I found that Henrietta was married to the artist of Piccadilly.
Did I say to the artist? What fell words were those, expressive of
what a galling hollowness, of what a bitter mockery! I--I--I--am
the artist. I was the real artist of Piccadilly, I was the real
artist of the Waterloo Road, I am the only artist of all those
pavement-subjects which daily and nightly arouse your admiration. I
do 'em, and I let 'em out. The man you behold with the papers of
chalks and the rubbers, touching up the down-strokes of the writing
and shading off the salmon, the man you give the credit to, the man
you give the money to, hires--yes! and I live to tell it!--hires
those works of art of me, and brings nothing to 'em but the candles.
Such is genius in a commercial country. I am not up to the
shivering, I am not up to the liveliness, I am not up to the
wanting-employment-in-an-office move; I am only up to originating
and executing the work. In consequence of which you never see me;
you think you see me when you see somebody else, and that somebody
else is a mere Commercial character. The one seen by self and Mr.
Click in the Waterloo Road can only write a single word, and that I
taught him, and it's MULTIPLICATION--which you may see him execute
upside down, because he can't do it the natural way. The one seen
by self and Henrietta by the Green Park railings can just smear into
existence the two ends of a rainbow, with his cuff and a rubber--if
very hard put upon making a show--but he could no more come the arch
of the rainbow, to save his life, than he could come the moon-light,
fish, volcano, shipwreck, mutton, hermit, or any of my most
celebrated effects.
To conclude as I began: if there's a blighted public character
going, I am the party. And often as you have seen, do see, and will
see, my Works, it's fifty thousand to one if you'll ever see me,
unless, when the candles are burnt down and the Commercial character
is gone, you should happen to notice a neglected young man
perseveringly rubbing out the last traces of the pictures, so that
nobody can renew the same. That's me.
