LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2421, 9 January 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

FBOM THE 3 GBAVE. At the back of a large old fashioned red brick house in the Soho district (London), a spacious studio, Ut by a glazed dome, had been built over what had been once probably a wallod-in London garden. A strong door, fastened by means of a heavy lock and bolt, and half hidden by a dark hued ourtaln of embossed velvet, opened from the studio on to a narrow back street or mews. There were to be found, but in no excess, such artistic objects as the painters have always delighted to possess—weapons and armour, soreens and draperies, specimens of carved oak, pictures framed and nnframed, mediaeval furniture and accessories, with the Indispensable dais or throne, for the due exhibition of sitters and models. The floor was only in part carpeted. A large canvas rested upon a substantial straddling oaken easel. A red fire glowed in a capacious grate, emitting much heat, yet leaving certain of the remote corners of the studio bleak enough. It was night ; the darkness without wrapped the glazed dome as In a cloak. The room within was but imperfectly lighted by an oil lamp and by tallow oandles burning in massive candlesticks of silver.

Before the fire, toasting his shapely galtered legs, sat an elderly gentleman clothed in black, his attire of a pattern that has long years since passed out of vogue. He wore powder in his carefully-arranged hair; a pigtail jerked and strayed about the high collar of his coat. A watch-ribbon, carrying seals and keys, swung from his fob. His white ringed fingers were olosed over a gold snuff-box. He was dark-browed, and rather grave of expression; his faca was certainly handsome, though a good deal lined and puokered, as characterised, moreover, by a certain bird-like aipcct; his nose took an aquiline curve, and his eyes owned the keenness and brightness of a hawk's.

His broad-brimmed, low-orowned beaver hat rested upon a small, spindle -legged table beside him. A muoh younger mm, slight of figure, fair-oomplexad, with fine features, but rather worn and haggard of look, leant against a corner of the mantelshelf. He was olad In a c.'aret-colored cloth suit, with dark-grey stockings ; his buttons, knee and shoe bnckles, wero all of cat steel. His unpowdered hair, of an auburn hue, was so disposed as to fall curling upon his forehead and almost to cover his tomples. From where he stood he could obtain a view of the large canvas upon the easel. He glanced at it unearily from time to time, with the air of a dissatisfied critic. The pioture was incomplete ; it represented an Bntombment. The young man was, in truth, a painter by profession. The studio was his j he had been listening to certain unfavourable comments upon his handiwork. For his friend, Dr Dempster, had ventured to be critioal. The young man moved from the fire place to the easel, carrying the lamp with himi ; he held it up so that the light might fall fully upon his canvas; and then stood_ still for some moments, frowningly considering it. «You are perhaps right, doctor,' he said at length, slowly and with a sigh. ' I know lam right, Paul Relnhardt, observed the elder man ; ' it's my business to be right. I have not studied and practised medicine and surgery all these long years to be wrong at last. For, look you, this is not simply a fine art questien, or I would hold my tongue. It Is rather a physloal question; it concerns natural philesophy, science, anatomy, physiology, fact. lam likely to be informed upon these aubjeota.' The doctor refreshed himself with a noisy pinch of snuff. ' The figures are all drawn consoiontionsly and laboriously from the life, I do assure yoo,* said Paul Bernhardt.

'Yes yon have justified your German origin, my friend,' the doctor continued, «your work is grand and true ; you have not spared youiself ; your figures are all, as you say, drawn conscientious'y and laboriously from the life ; not a doubt of it; but, my good friend, in this instance'—as he spoke the doctor pointed to the most prominent figure in the painter's composition—- ' it was not Life that you had need of ; it wsb Death.' ' You mean * ' That Is simply a live model lying dewn in a position you have chosen for him ; he is uot even asleep ; he Is alive and awake ; those are not the limbs of a oorpse ; they are not a dead man s muscle : that Is not a dead man's hand ; the blood of life still courses through those veins; if I were to put my finger up that wrist I should feel a healthy pulse beating.' ' But the color V ' Well, the color is livid, urnwholesome, phast'y; but does that sufficiently convey the idea of your pioture, or does it merely demonstrate that you are not a colorist, my friend ? It strikes me that you havo tainted all your carnations alike with tones of olay, or of leather, or of nankeen; If one figure is dead, all are dead ; if one lives, all live.* • You are perhaps right, dootor, the young man said again after a pause, and with another sigh ; ' but I think yon hardly allow for tho unavoidable limitations of art—the difficulties under which an artist labours; I strive hard, I do assure you, to be true to nature to be slnoere in art; it is the same thing almost; but if I fail, I must fail ; I can only depict death from a living model, arranged in a particular pose, auch as, to my thinking, a dead body might reasonably and naturally be expeoted to assume.'

'I apprehend.' said the doctor calmly, tapping his snuff-box, ' that If death Is to be accurately and faithfully pourtrayed, it must be from a dead model.' * That ia easily said. * 'And easily done. Where is the difficulty? My dear Paul, if I had need of what we call a subject, do you think one would not be readily forthcoming ? Indeed, if I wantad a hundred subjects I should obtain them forthwith. As a rule, what Is wanted is supplied. There is a price to be paid, of course. According to my experience, at every step in life there is a price to be paid, of one kind or of another ; for it is not invariably payable In money, tut it may be you are so accustomed to paint only from the quick, you would object to paint from the dead. That what Is called your nature —by whloh term I understand the stomach simply to be signified—would revolt at suoh a proceeding.' 'lf I do not think so,' said the painter ; 'if I know myself, I should not hesitate to ply my brushes, even In the presence of the dead. Surely my hand would not fail me; my eyes would not lose their power of observing ; my senses, my leason would not abandon me ! I have no moral scruples on the subject.' 'I am glad of that. What we call moral scruples ore often only silly prejudices in masquerade.' ' I am not timid, although I desire to make no foolish vaunt of courage.'

' No, you are not timid, my friend ; but you own a certain element of imaginativeness. Sometimes, It seems to me that the very brave are merely the very stuptd. They oonfront danger boldly because they fail to understand i». They have no mind's eye. They only see what Is before them, and they see without fully comprehending. Men are often frightened, not simply by facts, but by the strange thoughts, dreams, and inventions they weave round facts, magnifying them and mystifying them. After all, what ia a dead body ? To me It is nothing. We members of the healing art are so often face to faoe with death,' he said with a grim smile, ' we are for ever'walking, as it were, over a battle-field. dhe bodies of those who have fallen in the great battle of life encompass us on every side. If we dootors have not absolutely slain them with our own hands, we have not saved them. Should we fear the dead ? Should we fiinoh. and shiver and tremble when we pass them by or step over them 1 Surely not. They are powerless for good or for evil, poor things. Yet they have their uses. Science has need of them. Why should they not serve Art likewise ?' ' I know no reason why they should not,' answered the painter ; 'to me the dead are "subjeots," as I said. We force death to betray to us certain of tbe secrets of life. We cut our way, literally, to.the mysteries of nature. For us the dead speak, and to good and salutary purpose. Who is wronged ? Well, possibly—l nay, possibly —the grave is desecrated. Ia that anything more than a manner of speaking—a set phrase, without any particular significance f If bodies are wanted they must come from somewhere. The doctor looked at his watch. * Near midnight ' he said, ' I did not think it was so late. I grow old and garrulous, and upon some topics, when I onoe begin, I cannot stop myself. Bat one word more. Is it to aye or no Y ' You mean—' ' Say aye, and by this time tomorrow, or let me say rather in the course of tomorrow night, the model you and your picture have need of shall be brought into your studio, shall be lodged before your easel; all shall be done secretly and silently ; I will charge myself with the accomplishment of the project; it shall be carried out completely without your stirring; you need not appear, you need not speak a word ; but I pledge myself that you shall have your model; all I ask is that yon will be at once bold and prudent and calm, and that you will leave that door unlocked '—he pointed to the door whioh led from the studio into the mews—' or that you will be in readiness to open It upon the instant when you hear a tap upon it without; you understand ? I see you do ; now, is it to be aye or no P' 'lt is to be aye,' said the painter, firmly. ' So be it, then ; good night Paul Bernhardt.'

' Good night, Doctor Dempster.' The dooter went Ms way. The painter sat musing bef ire the fire. Ht outstretohed his hands—they had turned very cold—and warmed them over the red-hot embers. Presently he took up the lamp to inspect anew his large inoomplete pioture of the Entombment. Passing a small looking-glass fixed against the wall, he glanced for a moment at the reflection of himself. He started; he had never before known himself to look to extremely wan and pallid. Twenty-four hours had passed. Paul Bernhardt was alone in his studio. His lamp was lighted, and the fire glowed again in his grate. He moved about uneasily; now pausing before his pioture, and now examining and reexamining the lock and flints of a horse pistol that rested upon the mantelshelf. He looked not so much alarmed as anxious and suspicions. He knew that something strange wns about to happen. He was less certain as to how he should meet and endure the coming event; its shadow was already upon him. Frequently he con-

salted his watch. He opened the door leading to the narrow street at the baok of the house and looked out, this way and that. It was very dark Ha held his breath that ho might listen the better. All was very still. Stay ! Surely he heard somethingFootsteps? No. A voice? Yes. But it was only the echo of the watchman's cry, as, in a distant street, he announced the hour of the night and the state of the weather. It was very cold ; a bitter wind blew down the narrow street. Paul Relnhardt wi'.h a shiver returned to his hearth, and stood there with ono foot upon the fender, leading against the mantelshelf in his old attitude, his cat steel bucklea sparkling in the firelight. • Can any accident have occurred ?' he asked himtelf; ' has there been any mistake ? Can the old doctor have failed to carry out his plan ?' He was trembling with nervous anxiety. But now ha could not be deceived, The sounds, first of wheels, then of footsteps, of low-toned speech, were plainly audible. The door- It had been left unfastened —was pushed open slowly. Then appeared a man with his hat slouobed over his face and wearing a long, heavy, many caped coat ; a large colored handkerchief was wound loosely round his neck. For a moment be stood still, glancing round the studio, as though taking note of Its contents. His eyes met Paul Beinhardt's. The man raised a thick grimy forefinger, by way of signal. A thick-set, swarthy man, dark-eyed, blaok-browed, blne-chlnned, coarse-featured.' 'By the doctor's order,' he said_ In a hoarse whisper ; 'a male subject—paid for. Is that right ?' Paul Bernhardt nodded. The man withdrew for & moment; a low whistle was heard. Presently he appeared with a companion assisting him. They carried a long and heavy burthen wrapped In a sheet of rough and ragged sackcloth of a dark hue. They stood for a moment in donbt. Paul pointed to the dais. They rudely and rather noisily deposited, or rather flung down, there the thing they had been carrying". 'You will drink ?'asked Paul. Yes; they would drinh ; brandy, gin, usquebaugh, anything. They were not particular. Thereupon he took a bottle and glasses from a cabinet in a corner of the studio and gave them brandy. They emptied their glasses very promptly and prepared to go. ' Stay,' said Paul; * one word more. There has been no foul play ?' • There has been no foul play, as far as I know,' calmly answered the man who had first entered the studio ; ' the subject died a natural death—at least I suppose he did.' ' In a workhouse ?' (To be continued)