PROLOGUE TO THE FIRST STORY.
THE TRAVELER'S STORY OF A TERRIBLY STRANGE BED.
PROLOGUE TO THE SECOND STORY.
THE LAWYER'S STORY OF A STOLEN LETTER.
PROLOGUE TO THE THIRD STORY.
THE FRENCH GOVERNESS'S STORY OF SISTER ROSE.
PART SECOND.
PART THIRD.
EPILOGUE TO THE THIRD STORY.
PROLOGUE TO THE FOURTH STORY.
THE ANGLER'S STORY of THE LADY OF GLENWITH GRANGE.
PROLOGUE TO THE FIFTH STORY.
PROLOGUE TO THE SIXTH STORY.
THE PROFESSOR'S STORY OF THE YELLOW MASK.
PART FIRST.
PART SECOND.
PART THIRD.
PREFACE TO "AFTER DARK."
I
have taken some pains to string together the various stories
contained in this Volume on a single thread of interest, which, so
far as I know, has at least the merit of not having been used before.The
pages entitled "Leah's Diary" are, however, intended to
fulfill another purpose besides that of serving as the frame-work for
my collection of tales. In this part of the book, and subsequently in
the Prologues to the stories, it has been my object to give the
reader one more glimpse at that artist-life which circumstances have
afforded me peculiar opportunities of studying, and which I have
already tried to represent, under another aspect, in my fiction,
"Hide-and-Seek." This time I wish to ask some sympathy for
the joys and sorrows of a poor traveling portrait-painter—presented
from his wife's point of view in "Leah's Diary," and
supposed to be briefly and simply narrated by himself in the
Prologues to the stories. I have purposely kept these two portions of
the book within certain limits; only giving, in the one case, as much
as the wife might naturally write in her diary at intervals of
household leisure; and, in the other, as much as a modest and
sensible man would be likely to say about himself and about the
characters he met with in his wanderings. If I have been so fortunate
as to make my idea intelligible by this brief and simple mode of
treatment, and if I have, at the same time, achieved the necessary
object of gathering several separate stories together as
neatly-fitting parts of one complete whole, I shall have succeeded in
a design which I have for some time past been very anxious creditably
to fulfill.Of
the tales themselves, taken individually, I have only to say, by way
of necessary explanation, that "The Lady of Glenwith Grange"
is now offered to the reader for the first time; and that the other
stories have appeared in the columns of
Household Words. My
best thanks are due to Mr. Charles Dickens for his kindness in
allowing me to set them in their present frame-work.I
must also gratefully acknowledge an obligation of another kind to the
accomplished artist, Mr. W. S. Herrick, to whom I am indebted for the
curious and interesting facts on which the tales of "The
Terribly Strange Bed" and "The Yellow Mask" are
founded.Although
the statement may appear somewhat superfluous to those who know me,
it may not be out of place to add, in conclusion, that these stories
are entirely of my own imagining, constructing, and writing. The fact
that the events of some of my tales occur on foreign ground, and are
acted out by foreign personages, appears to have suggested in some
quarters the inference that the stories themselves might be of
foreign origin. Let me, once for all, assure any readers who may
honor me with their attention, that in this, and in all other cases,
they may depend on the genuineness of my literary offspring. The
little children of my brain may be weakly enough, and may be sadly in
want of a helping hand to aid them in their first attempts at walking
on the stage of this great world; but, at any rate, they are not
borrowed children. The members of my own literary family are indeed
increasing so fast as to render the very idea of borrowing quite out
of the question, and to suggest serious apprehension that I may not
have done adding to the large book-population, on my own sole
responsibility, even yet.
PROLOGUE TO THE FIRST STORY.
Before
I begin, by the aid of my wife's patient attention and ready pen, to
relate any of the stories which I have heard at various times from
persons whose likenesses I have been employed to take, it will not be
amiss if I try to secure the reader's interest in the following
pages, by briefly explaining how I became possessed of the narrative
matter which they contain.Of
myself I have nothing to say, but that I have followed the profession
of a traveling portrait-painter for the last fifteen years. The
pursuit of my calling has not only led me all through England, but
has taken me twice to Scotland, and once to Ireland. In moving from
district to district, I am never guided beforehand by any settled
plan. Sometimes the letters of recommendation which I get from
persons who are satisfied with the work I have done for them
determine the direction in which I travel. Sometimes I hear of a new
neighborhood in which there is no resident artist of ability, and
remove thither on speculation. Sometimes my friends among the
picture-dealers say a good word on my behalf to their rich customers,
and so pave the way for me in the large towns. Sometimes my
prosperous and famous brother-artists, hearing of small commissions
which it is not worth their while to accept, mention my name, and
procure me introductions to pleasant country houses. Thus I get on,
now in one way and now in another, not winning a reputation or making
a fortune, but happier, perhaps, on the whole, than many men who have
got both the one and the other. So, at least, I try to think now,
though I started in my youth with as high an ambition as the best of
them. Thank God, it is not my business here to speak of past times
and their disappointments. A twinge of the old hopeless heartache
comes over me sometimes still, when I think of my student days.One
peculiarity of my present way of life is, that it brings me into
contact with all sorts of characters. I almost feel, by this time, as
if I had painted every civilized variety of the human race. Upon the
whole, my experience of the world, rough as it has been, has not
taught me to think unkindly of my fellow-creatures. I have certainly
received such treatment at the hands of some of my sitters as I could
not describe without saddening and shocking any kind-hearted reader;
but, taking one year and one place with another, I have cause to
remember with gratitude and respect—sometimes even with friendship
and affection—a very large proportion of the numerous persons who
have employed me.Some
of the results of my experience are curious in a moral point of view.
For example, I have found women almost uniformly less delicate in
asking me about my terms, and less generous in remunerating me for my
services, than men. On the other hand, men, within my knowledge, are
decidedly vainer of their personal attractions, and more vexatiously
anxious to have them done full justice to on canvas, than women.
Taking both sexes together, I have found young people, for the most
part, more gentle, more reasonable, and more considerate than old.
And, summing up, in a general way, my experience of different ranks
(which extends, let me premise, all the way down from peers to
publicans), I have met with most of my formal and ungracious
receptions among rich people of uncertain social standing: the
highest classes and the lowest among my employers almost always
contrive—in widely different ways, of course, to make me feel at
home as soon as I enter their houses.The
one great obstacle that I have to contend against in the practice of
my profession is not, as some persons may imagine, the difficulty of
making my sitters keep their heads still while I paint them, but the
difficulty of getting them to preserve the natural look and the
every-day peculiarities of dress and manner. People will assume an
expression, will brush up their hair, will correct any little
characteristic carelessness in their apparel—will, in short, when
they want to have their likenesses taken, look as if they were
sitting for their pictures. If I paint them, under these artificial
circumstances, I fail of course to present them in their habitual
aspect; and my portrait, as a necessary consequence, disappoints
everybody, the sitter always included. When we wish to judge of a
man's character by his handwriting, we want his customary scrawl
dashed off with his common workaday pen, not his best small-text,
traced laboriously with the finest procurable crow-quill point. So it
is with portrait-painting, which is, after all, nothing but a right
reading of the externals of character recognizably presented to the
view of others.Experience,
after repeated trials, has proved to me that the only way of getting
sitters who persist in assuming a set look to resume their habitual
expression, is to lead them into talking about some subject in which
they are greatly interested. If I can only beguile them into speaking
earnestly, no matter on what topic, I am sure of recovering their
natural expression; sure of seeing all the little precious everyday
peculiarities of the man or woman peep out, one after another, quite
unawares. The long, maundering stories about nothing, the wearisome
recitals of petty grievances, the local anecdotes unrelieved by the
faintest suspicion of anything like general interest, which I have
been condemned to hear, as a consequence of thawing the ice off the
features of formal sitters by the method just described, would fill
hundreds of volumes, and promote the repose of thousands of readers.
On the other hand, if I have suffered under the tediousness of the
many, I have not been without my compensating gains from the wisdom
and experience of the few. To some of my sitters I have been indebted
for information which has enlarged my mind—to some for advice which
has lightened my heart—to some for narratives of strange adventure
which riveted my attention at the time, which have served to interest
and amuse my fireside circle for many years past, and which are now,
I would fain hope, destined to make kind friends for me among a wider
audience than any that I have yet addressed.Singularly
enough, almost all the best stories that I have heard from my sitters
have been told by accident. I only remember two cases in which a
story was volunteered to me, and, although I have often tried the
experiment, I cannot call to mind even a single instance in which
leading questions (as the lawyers call them) on my part, addressed to
a sitter, ever produced any result worth recording. Over and over
again, I have been disastrously successful in encouraging dull people
to weary me. But the clever people who have something interesting to
say, seem, so far as I have observed them, to acknowledge no other
stimulant than chance. For every story which I propose including in
the present collection, excepting one, I have been indebted, in the
first instance, to the capricious influence of the same chance.
Something my sitter has seen about me, something I have remarked in
my sitter, or in the room in which I take the likeness, or in the
neighborhood through which I pass on my way to work, has suggested
the necessary association, or has started the right train of
recollections, and then the story appeared to begin of its own
accord. Occasionally the most casual notice, on my part, of some very
unpromising object has smoothed the way for the relation of a long
and interesting narrative. I first heard one of the most dramatic of
the stories that will be presented in this book, merely through being
carelessly inquisitive to know the history of a stuffed poodle-dog.It
is thus not without reason that I lay some stress on the
desirableness of prefacing each one of the following narratives by a
brief account of the curious manner in which I became possessed of
it. As to my capacity for repeating these stories correctly, I can
answer for it that my memory may be trusted. I may claim it as a
merit, because it is after all a mechanical one, that I forget
nothing, and that I can call long-passed conversations and events as
readily to my recollection as if they had happened but a few weeks
ago. Of two things at least I feel tolerably certain beforehand, in
meditating over the contents of this book: First, that I can repeat
correctly all that I have heard; and, secondly, that I have never
missed anything worth hearing when my sitters were addressing me on
an interesting subject. Although I cannot take the lead in talking
while I am engaged in painting, I can listen while others speak, and
work all the better for it.So
much in the way of general preface to the pages for which I am about
to ask the reader's attention. Let me now advance to particulars, and
describe how I came to hear the first story in the present
collection. I begin with it because it is the story that I have
oftenest "rehearsed," to borrow a phrase from the stage.
Wherever I go, I am sooner or later sure to tell it. Only last night,
I was persuaded into repeating it once more by the inhabitants of the
farmhouse in which I am now staying.Not
many years ago, on returning from a short holiday visit to a friend
settled in Paris, I found professional letters awaiting me at my
agent's in London, which required my immediate presence in Liverpool.
Without stopping to unpack, I proceeded by the first conveyance to my
new destination; and, calling at the picture-dealer's shop, where
portrait-painting engagements were received for me, found to my great
satisfaction that I had remunerative employment in prospect, in and
about Liverpool, for at least two months to come. I was putting up my
letters in high spirits, and was just leaving the picture-dealer's
shop to look out for comfortable lodgings, when I was met at the door
by the landlord of one of the largest hotels in Liverpool—an old
acquaintance whom I had known as manager of a tavern in London in my
student days."Mr.
Kerby!" he exclaimed, in great astonishment. "What an
unexpected meeting! the last man in the world whom I expected to see,
and yet the very man whose services I want to make use of!""What,
more work for me?" said I; "are all the people in Liverpool
going to have their portraits painted?""I
only know of one," replied the landlord, "a gentleman
staying at my hotel, who wants a chalk drawing done for him. I was on
my way here to inquire of any artist whom our picture-dealing friend
could recommend. How glad I am that I met you before I had committed
myself to employing a stranger!""Is
this likeness wanted at once?" I asked, thinking of the number
of engagements that I had already got in my pocket."Immediately—to-day—this
very hour, if possible," said the landlord. "Mr. Faulkner,
the gentleman I am speaking of, was to have sailed yesterday for the
Brazils from this place; but the wind shifted last night to the wrong
quarter, and he came ashore again this morning. He may of course be
detained here for some time; but he may also be called on board ship
at half an hour's notice, if the wind shifts back again in the right
direction. This uncertainty makes it a matter of importance that the
likeness should be begun immediately. Undertake it if you possibly
can, for Mr. Faulkner's a liberal gentleman, who is sure to give you
your own terms."I
reflected for a minute or two. The portrait was only wanted in chalk,
and would not take long; besides, I might finish it in the evening,
if my other engagements pressed hard upon me in the daytime. Why not
leave my luggage at the picture-dealer's, put off looking for
lodgings till night, and secure the new commission boldly by going
back at once with the landlord to the hotel? I decided on following
this course almost as soon as the idea occurred to me—put my chalks
in my pocket, and a sheet of drawing paper in the first of my
portfolios that came to hand—and so presented myself before Mr.
Faulkner, ready to take his likeness, literally at five minutes'
notice.I
found him a very pleasant, intelligent man, young and handsome. He
had been a great traveler; had visited all the wonders of the East;
and was now about to explore the wilds of the vast South American
Continent. Thus much he told me good-humoredly and unconstrainedly
while I was preparing my drawing materials.As
soon as I had put him in the right light and position, and had seated
myself opposite to him, he changed the subject of conversation, and
asked me, a little confusedly as I thought, if it was not a customary
practice among portrait-painters to gloss over the faults in their
sitters' faces, and to make as much as possible of any good points
which their features might possess."Certainly,"
I answered. "You have described the whole art and mystery of
successful portrait-painting in a few words.""May
I beg, then," said he, "that you will depart from the usual
practice in my case, and draw me with all my defects, exactly as I
am? The fact is," he went on, after a moment's pause, "the
likeness you are now preparing to take is intended for my mother. My
roving disposition makes me a great anxiety to her, and she parted
from me this last time very sadly and unwillingly. I don't know how
the idea came into my head, but it struck me this morning that I
could not better employ the time, while I was delayed here on shore,
than by getting my likeness done to send to her as a keepsake. She
has no portrait of me since I was a child, and she is sure to value a
drawing of me more than anything else I could send to her. I only
trouble you with this explanation to prove that I am really sincere
in my wish to be drawn unflatteringly, exactly as I am."Secretly
respecting and admiring him for what he had just said, I promised
that his directions should be implicitly followed, and began to work
immediately. Before I had pursued my occupation for ten minutes, the
conversation began to flag, and the usual obstacle to my success with
a sitter gradually set itself up between us. Quite unconsciously, of
course, Mr. Faulkner stiffened his neck, shut his month, and
contracted his eyebrows—evidently under the impression that he was
facilitating the process of taking his portrait by making his face as
like a lifeless mask as possible. All traces of his natural animated
expression were fast disappearing, and he was beginning to change
into a heavy and rather melancholy-looking man.This
complete alteration was of no great consequence so long as I was only
engaged in drawing the outline of his face and the general form of
his features. I accordingly worked on doggedly for more than an
hour—then left off to point my chalks again, and to give my sitter
a few minutes' rest. Thus far the likeness had not suffered through
Mr. Faulkner's unfortunate notion of the right way of sitting for his
portrait; but the time of difficulty, as I well knew, was to come. It
was impossible for me to think of putting any expression into the
drawing unless I could contrive some means, when he resumed his
chair, of making him look like himself again. "I will talk to
him about foreign parts," thought I, "and try if I can't
make him forget that he is sitting for his picture in that way."While
I was pointing my chalks Mr. Faulkner was walking up and down the
room. He chanced to see the portfolio I had brought with me leaning
against the wall, and asked if there were any sketches in it. I told
him there were a few which I had made during my recent stay in Paris;
"In Paris?" he repeated, with a look of interest; "may
I see them?"I
gave him the permission he asked as a matter of course. Sitting down,
he took the portfolio on his knee, and began to look through it. He
turned over the first five sketches rapidly enough; but when he came
to the sixth, I saw his face flush directly, and observed that he
took the drawing out of the portfolio, carried it to the window, and
remained silently absorbed in the contemplation of it for full five
minutes. After that, he turned round to me, and asked very anxiously
if I had any objection to part with that sketch.It
was the least interesting drawing of the collection—merely a view
in one of the streets running by the backs of the houses in the
Palais Royal. Some four or five of these houses were comprised in the
view, which was of no particular use to me in any way; and which was
too valueless, as a work of art, for me to think of selling it. I
begged his acceptance of it at once. He thanked me quite warmly; and
then, seeing that I looked a little surprised at the odd selection he
had made from my sketches, laughingly asked me if I could guess why
he had been so anxious to become possessed of the view which I had
given him?"Probably,"
I answered, "there is some remarkable historical association
connected with that street at the back of the Palais Royal, of which
I am ignorant.""No,"
said Mr. Faulkner; "at least none that
I know of. The only
association connected with the place in
my mind is a purely
personal association. Look at this house in your drawing—the house
with the water-pipe running down it from top to bottom. I once passed
a night there—a night I shall never forget to the day of my death.
I have had some awkward traveling adventures in my time; but
that adventure—!
Well, never mind, suppose we begin the sitting. I make but a bad
return for your kindness in giving me the sketch by thus wasting your
time in mere talk.""Come!
come!" thought I, as he went back to the sitter's chair, "I
shall see your natural expression on your face if I can only get you
to talk about that adventure." It was easy enough to lead him in
the right direction. At the first hint from me, he returned to the
subject of the house in the back street. Without, I hope, showing any
undue curiosity, I contrived to let him see that I felt a deep
interest in everything he now said. After two or three preliminary
hesitations, he at last, to my great joy, fairly started on the
narrative of his adventure. In the interest of his subject he soon
completely forgot that he was sitting for his portrait—the very
expression that I wanted came over his face—and my drawing
proceeded toward completion, in the right direction, and to the best
purpose. At every fresh touch I felt more and more certain that I was
now getting the better of my grand difficulty; and I enjoyed the
additional gratification of having my work lightened by the recital
of a true story, which possessed, in my estimation, all the
excitement of the most exciting romance.This,
as I recollect it, is how Mr. Faulkner told me his adventure:
