Rose, Blanche, and Violet, Volume 3 (of 3)

THE IDLER'S DAY.

"Nature hath given us legs to go to our objects, not wings to fly to them."--EASTWARD HOE.

The spring of 1841 was very mild, and this enabled Cecil and Blanche to endure the wretched, comfortless state of Mrs. Tring's boarding-house, better than if the weather had been more rigorous. The cheapness, which was now becoming more and more important to them, was therefore a sufficient compensation for the want of comfort. They had renewed their engagement, hoping that either the comic opera, or the historical picture, would so improve their circumstances as to admit of their removal in the summer.

They had long awakened from their holiday dream to find that, however pleasant the change in their position, it was only pleasant as a change; the novelty once worn off, the scene appeared in all its ugliness; or rather, let me say, appeared so to Cecil. He was of a luxurious habit, and felt privation keenly. Blanche felt it less, and her love for him made home happy. She had never been so happy. Cecil was all she could desire.

As may be imagined, Cecil once relaxing in the energy with which he had begun to work, never recovered his former happiness. The charms of society were charms he could not withstand; the more so because he was fitted for it, shone in it. Having dined occasionally at the club was sufficient to give him an incurable disgust to the meagre fare Mrs. Tring spread before him, and he consequently began to absent himself more and more.

Added to this, his painting proceeded slowly. "Inspiration," wait for it as he would, seemed unwilling to descend upon him. Then there were so many days lost: sometimes the weather was foggy, and that prevented him; sometimes it was fine, and tempted him to exercise; sometimes he had visits to pay; sometimes men "looked in" upon him at his rooms. One way or another, the week slipped from him without leaving behind it any record of labour.

Besides--and this perhaps was one great cause of his idleness, giving strength to the other influences--he grew less satisfied with his picture the nearer it approached its termination. Cecil was a man whose designs were always finer than his productions, his sketches gave a promise which his execution never realized. In this little trait we may see the whole man. It might serve as a description of his character. With a certain freshness, delicacy, and even grandeur in his conceptions, he wanted strength, energy, and mastery, to endow them with vitality. Who can wonder that he raved about "genius," and scorned the "mechanical labour" of mere technical execution?

When he contemplated his productions, he grew impatient at their inadequacy to represent his conceptions, and he threw the blame on everything but on his own indolence and caprice. That broad line which separates intention from execution--which makes the thought a thing--which distinguishes the artist from other men, by creating in art what other men only create in visions--that broad line Cecil wilfully overlooked. He saw that he had failed, and did not choose to see wherein lay his failure. He despised the "drudgery" which was indispensable to success. Disgusted with his failure, he lost all courage, and scarcely ever handled a pencil.

"When will your picture be finished, Mr. Chamberlayne?" asked Mrs. Merryweather, one morning at breakfast.

"Indeed, I cannot say," he replied; "works of that magnitude require long consideration. I could have produced it long ago, had I been disposed; but I'm in no hurry."

"Do you know Mr. Bostock's paintings?"

Cecil replied that he did not.

"Oh, he's a beautiful painter, that he is! Does peaches and mackerel so that you wouldn't know them from real. His pictures give one an appetite--that they do. I remember once--it was very curious--Mrs. Henley, a relation of mine who lives at Southampton--her husband was in the customs--good situation, as I have heard--and a strange creature he was, with the queerest nose you ever saw, and eyes just like a lobster's, one was always alarmed lest they should tumble into his waistcoat pocket! Well, he married my relation, Mrs. Henley, one of the best creatures! She often comes up to town, and I should so like you to be acquainted with her, you'll be quite pleased with her! So, as I was saying, she came up to town once, to manage a little business, and enjoy herself at the same time. Well, one day she called upon us. Merryweather--my poor Merryweather was then alive: who wouldn't have thought him good for another thirty years at least! He proposed to take us both to the Exhibition; so we went. It was a very hot day, I remember; intensely hot. Poor Merryweather was in a bath all the time. And as he stood in the octagon room, his hat in his hand, wiping the perspiration from his face--which was a sight of itself to see!--complaining of heat, I suddenly spied one of Mr. Bostock's pretty pictures--oh, it was a love! you can't fancy what a bunch of grapes straddled across a few peaches surrounded with egg plums! 'Lor,' says poor Merryweather, 'do look at that; isn't it refreshing.' And we all declared it was; and so it was."

Cecil, as usual, made a precipitate retreat at the conclusion of this biographical anecdote, and Blanche soon followed him.

"By George!" he said, puffing a huge column of smoke from his mouth, "that woman is insupportable. I really must quit this hole; at least if that toad squats in it."

"She amuses me," said Blanche.

"Lucky for you."

Blanche took up her work, and sat beside her husband, who, stretched upon the sofa, a cigar in his mouth, was at what he chose to consider his morning meditations. He certainly did think; but thought of the club, of society, of opera singers, and of his past life, far more than he thought of his work. From time to time he spoke to Blanche, and the subjects upon which he spoke were sufficiently trivial to have told any one more clear-sighted than she was, how little art occupied his reveries.

His cigar finished, he put on a pair of white kid gloves, and occupied himself for half an hour cleaning them with india-rubber, whistling, humming, and chatting all the while with enviable insouciance.

That important business concluded, he rose, kissed his wife, yawned, stretched his limbs, looked out of the window, and then took up his bottes vernies, which he began to rub up, and brighten with a piece of wool dipped in oil, whistling, humming, and chatting as before.

"What time is it, I wonder?" he said, drawing out his watch, "nearly twelve! whew! how the morning flies. I must be off. Where's my coat, Pet?"

She gave him his coat, and in another half hour he had completed his toilet, and was ready to start.

"God bless you, my Pet!" he said, embracing her.

"Shall you be home to dinner to-day, dearest?"

"No, I am to dine with Lufton; and this evening we go to Miss Mason's."

"Enjoy yourself! God bless you, dearest!"

Another kiss, and our man of genius departed for his studio. Arrived there, he began to consider whether it were not too late to do anything that day. It was near one o'clock; at two, Frank was to call upon him. They were going to a morning conceit.

"It is decidedly useless beginning anything to-day. I'll just try over some of those songs till Frank calls."

He sat down to the piano. Having sung for a quarter of an hour, he opened a French novel, and was deep in that when his fidus Achates appeared.

"Frank," said Cecil, as they strolled out together; "I am going to ask you a question which generally disturbs friendship, but which won't alter ours, because you'll answer it candidly."

"Cis, I know what that exordium means. Whenever a man begins in that solemn circumlocutory manner he can have but one object--money."