第123章

"Kind old man!" exclaimed Elinor. "He gazes at me as if he wereabout to utter a word of paternal advice.""And at me," said Walter, "as if he were about to shake his headand rebuke me for some suspected iniquity. But so does the original. Ishall never feel quite comfortable under his eye till we standbefore him to be married."They now heard a footstep on the floor, and turning, beheld thepainter, who had been some moments in the room, and had listened toa few of their remarks. He was a middle-aged man, with a countenancewell worthy of his own pencil. Indeed, by the picturesque, thoughcareless arrangement of his rich dress, and, perhaps, because his souldwelt always among painted shapes, he looked somewhat like aportrait himself. His visitors were sensible of a kindred betweenthe artist and his works, and felt as if one of the pictures hadstepped from the canvas to salute them.

Walter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the painter, explained theobject of their visit. While he spoke, a sunbeam was falling athwarthis figure and Elinor's, with so happy an effect that they also seemedliving pictures of youth and beauty, gladdened by bright fortune.

The artist was evidently struck.

"My easel is occupied for several ensuing days, and my stay inBoston must be brief," said he, thoughtfully; then, after an observantglance, he added: "but your wishes shall be gratified, though Idisappoint the Chief Justice and Madam Oliver. I must not lose thisopportunity, for the sake of painting a few ells of broadcloth andbrocade."The painter expressed a desire to introduce both their portraitsinto one picture, and represent them engaged in some appropriateaction. This plan would have delighted the lovers, but was necessarilyrejected, because so large a space of canvas would have been unfit forthe room which it was intended to decorate. Two half-lengthportraits were therefore fixed upon. After they had taken leave,Walter Ludlow asked Elinor, with a smile, whether she knew what aninfluence over their fates the painter was about to acquire.

"The old women of Boston affirm," continued he, "that after hehas once got possession of a person's face and figure, he may painthim in any act or situation whatever- and the picture will beprophetic. Do you believe it?""Not quite," said Elinor, smiling. "Yet if he has such magic, thereis something so gentle in his manner that I am sure he will use itwell."It was the painter's choice to proceed with both the portraits atthe same time, assigning as a reason, in the mystical language whichhe sometimes used, that the faces threw light upon each other.

Accordingly he gave now a touch to Walter, and now to Elinor, andthe features of one and the other began to start forth so vividly thatit appeared as if his triumphant art would actually disengage themfrom the canvas. Amid the rich light and deep shade, they beheld theirphantom selves. But, though the likeness promised to be perfect,they were not quite satisfied with the expression; it seemed morevague than in most of the painter's works. He, however, wassatisfied with the prospect of success, and being much interested inthe lovers, employed his leisure moments, unknown to them, in making acrayon sketch of their two figures. During their sittings, heengaged them in conversation, and kindled up their faces withcharacteristic traits, which, though continually varying, it was hispurpose to combine and fix. At length he announced that at theirnext visit both the portraits would be ready for delivery.

"If my pencil will but be true to my conception, in the few lasttouches which I meditate," observed he, "these two pictures will be myvery best performances. Seldom, indeed, has an artist such subjects."While speaking, he still bent his penetrative eye upon them, norwithdrew it till they had reached the bottom of the stairs.

Nothing, in the whole circle of human vanities, takes stronger holdof the imagination than this affair of having a portrait painted.

Yet why should it be so? The looking-glass, the polished globes of theandirons, the mirror-like water, and all other reflecting surfaces,continually present us with portraits, or rather ghosts, of ourselves,which we glance at, and straightway forget them. But we forget themonly because they vanish. It is the idea of duration- of earthlyimmortality- that gives such a mysterious interest to our ownportraits. Walter and Elinor were not insensible to this feeling,and hastened to the painter's room, punctually at the appointedhour, to meet those pictured shapes which were to be theirrepresentatives with posterity. The sunshine flashed after them intothe apartment, but left it somewhat gloomy as they closed the door.

Their eyes were immediately attracted to their portraits, whichrested against the farthest wall of the room. At the first glance,through the dim light and the distance, seeing themselves in preciselytheir natural attitudes, and with all the air that they recognizedso well, they uttered a simultaneous exclamation of delight.

"There we stand," cried Walter, enthusiastically, "fixed insunshine forever! No dark passions can gather on our faces!""No," said Elinor, more calmly; "no dreary change can sadden us."This was said while they were approaching, and had yet gainedonly an imperfect view of the pictures. The painter, after salutingthem, busied himself at a table in completing a crayon sketch, leavinghis visitors to form their own judgment as to his perfected labors. Atintervals, he sent a glance from beneath his deep eyebrows, watchingtheir countenances in profile, with his pencil suspended over thesketch. They had now stood some moments, each in front of theother's picture, contemplating it with entranced attention, butwithout uttering a word. At length, Walter stepped forward- then back-viewing Elinor's portrait in various lights, and finally spoke.