“But,” said Talbot, who had in vain attempted
to arrest the criticisms of the painter (who, very
deaf at all times, was, at that time in particular,
engrossed by the self-satisfaction always enjoyed by
one expatiating on his favourite topic),—“but,”
said Talbot, in a louder voice, “you own there
is great genius in the design?”
“Certainly, there is genius,” replied
Sir Joshua, in a tone of calm and complacent good-nature;
“but what is genius without culture? You
say the artist is young, very young; let him take time:
I do not say let him attempt a humbler walk; let him
persevere in the lofty one he has chosen, but let
him first retrace every step he has taken; let him
devote days, months, years, to the most diligent study
of the immortal masters of the divine art, before
he attempts (to exhibit, at least) another historical
picture. He has mistaken altogether the nature
of invention: a fine invention is nothing more
than a fine deviation from, or enlargement on, a fine
model: imitation, if noble and general, insures
the best hope of originality. Above all, let
your young friend, if he can afford it, visit Italy.”
“He shall afford it,” said Talbot, kindly,
“for he shall have whatever advantages I can
procure him; but you see the picture is only half-completed:
he could alter it!”
“He had better burn it!” replied the painter,
with a gentle smile.
And Talbot, in benevolent despair, hurried his visitor
out of the room. He soon returned to seek and
console the artist, but the artist was gone; the despised,
the fatal picture, the blessing and curse of so many
anxious and wasted hours, had vanished also with its
creator.
CHAPTER XXIV.
What is this soul, then?
Whence
Came it?—It does not seem my own, and
I
Have no self-passion or identity!
Some fearful end must be—
. . . . . .
There never lived a mortal man, who bent
His appetite beyond his natural sphere,
But starved and died.—Keats:
Endymion.
On entering his home, Warner pushed aside, for the
first time in his life with disrespect, his aged and
kindly relation, who, as if in mockery of the unfortunate
artist stood prepared to welcome and congratulate
his return. Bearing his picture in his arms,
he rushed upstairs, hurried into his room, and locked
the door. Hastily he tore aside the cloth which
had been drawn over the picture; hastily and tremblingly
he placed it upon the frame accustomed to support it,
and then, with a long, long, eager, searching, scrutinizing
glance, he surveyed the once beloved mistress of his
worship. Presumption, vanity, exaggerated self-esteem,
are, in their punishment, supposed to excite ludicrous
not sympathetic emotion; but there is an excess of
feeling, produced by whatever cause it may be, into
which, in spite of ourselves, we are forced to enter.
Even fear, the most contemptible of the passions,
becomes tragic the moment it becomes an agony.
Copyrights
The Disowned — Volume 03 from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
