From Papers Found in the Possession of An Ugly Man.
by Robert Postans.
Originally published in Bentley's Miscellany (Richard Bentley).
If I was asked to describe myself, I should try to do so, negatively,—thus, I have not bright crisp curling auburn hair,—nor coal black eyes,—neither have I an expansive forehead, a Greek or a Roman nose, and my mouth is not studded with mother-of-pearl teeth. I have, in short, none of the raw materials, from which poets, novelists and play-wrights fabricate the article they call—Beauty. But if I was compelled to speak positively, I should make short work of the matter, and call myself an ugly man.
And depend upon it, however unromantic it may seem, there are more ugly heroes, ay, and heroines too, than handsome ones. The conduct of men from the deluge downwards proves it. Love (the true thing, I mean) is not mere fealty to a pretty face, for who cares for affection, that is only skin deep. Besides, everybody knows that the gaudy butterfly will turn out to be only a grub at last. True, chuckles vanity, but while it flutters it commands universal admiration—the eye-worship of the world. Well, let it. Love at first sight with such dolls may be forgiven; and if it lasts beyond the honeymoon, there is no help for the lunatic, for the odds are, that he becomes enamoured with his fetters, and wears them without raving.
Let the ugly take heart then, and though, like me, possessed of a turn-up nose, a strange lawless sort of mouth, kept open by tusks instead of teeth, and a couple of staring red eyes, yet they may have their oglings, their wanton looks, and languishing smiles. Nay, more, there is sure to be somebody who has the heart to relish and return them. Venus married Vulcan, you know; how the matter was brought about is no business for us ugly fellows to stand wondering at. It is enough to know that beauty sometimes chooses ugliness for its mate, and blindly loves it.
But though I do not pride myself upon the strength of mere clay, I have one mode of consolation common to most people whose perfections are all out of sight; for I have often noticed that where dame Nature has been most careful in her visible handiwork, such as tinting a blue eye, or polishing up a jet black one—planting a luxuriant crop of ringlets or moustaches, or in giving a girl the neatest ankle in the world, or a man the best-turned leg in ten thousand, she has been proportionably careless in her preparation of that invisible functionary—the Brain, I feel then that it is no matter if I am as ugly as a toad, so long as I carry a jewel in my head.
I acknowledge, however, that some explanation is necessary why an ugly fellow like me should have sat, day after day, with an unmeaning smirk upon my countenance, until it was committed to canvas. Were I a handsome man, indeed—but I forbear, my modesty faints before so strange an hypothesis—I must finish the sentence however—therefore, were I a handsome man, such conduct might perhaps be pardoned, but with such a face as mine, I feel it would be the height of impudence.
But it is time to speak of my kidnapping, and how it was brought about. I was, at the period of that event, a confidential managing man in one of the wealthiest firms in the city, and, as near as I can guess, about forty years old. I am not certain upon the latter point, for two reasons; first, I have no remembrance of my parents; and, secondly, my plainness is of that rugged, gnarled and puckered quality, that the footsteps of Time leave no visible impression on my face. I am alike in doubt whether I always lived in London, for I have no visions of buttercups and daisies daguerreotyped upon my memory during the sunny days of childhood; but as Nature generally takes care that these blissful reminiscences are not effaced even by the mildewing atmosphere and corroding influences of the city, I suppose that I always had.
Well, in the routine of business, it became necessary to send a confidential person to the Isle of Wight on affairs of considerable trust and delicacy, and even now I can call to mind the delight I experienced at the anticipated exchange of the heat and noise of London for the tranquil scenery and quiet elegance of this abode of natural beauty. Visions of green woods, flowery meads, bright sea-shores, rocks, glens and bays, all lit up by sunny weather, crowded upon my imagination.
I was consigned to a relative of one of our partners, who had retired to Cowes. He had been advised of my coming, and was on the look out for my arrival. On producing my letter of introduction, of course he stared at me; there was nothing unusual in that, for everybody did the same; but it was the manner in which he stared that surprised me. There was a sort of admiration in it, something like the delight of a virtuoso on finding a distorted ugly ornament of the middle ages. To do him justice, however, I must observe, that he was delicately sensitive in not wounding my feelings, for it was only by stealth that I was able to detect his stolen glances of astonishment at my singular ugliness.
As my business with him was a money transaction, it was ended in a few hours, and I then formed myself into a committee, and deliberated as to the most agreeable mode of enjoying the three days' grace allowed me, in a rambling tour through this beautiful island. But alas! I had reckoned without my host, for immediately after breakfast, just as I was about to start upon an unrestricted jaunt, he approached me with his blandest smile, and begged to be allowed to make a sketch of my head.
Good heavens! thought I. Is he joking? or does he mean to insult me? Alas, no; his enraptured manner soon convinced me he was sincere. It was admiration for my picturesque head that induced him to make such a request. What was I to do! I felt that it was impossible to refuse him so simple a demand—a demand, too, which most people would have considered flattering. Moreover, he was a particular friend of the "firm," and it might be impolitic to disoblige him. This consideration, and his singularly winning manners, induced me to accede to his whim, hoping that after an hour's study of my ugliness, he would be intimidated from further proceedings.
But I soon found that my host was an amateur artist, going about seeking whom he might devour. It leaked out, during the "sitting," that he had painted to death all his friends and relations—then his intimate acquaintances became food for his "palette." His taste then banqueted upon his cook and his footman, his housemaid and butler—occasionally relishing a butcher boy or a baker. In this way he had indulged his appetite for painting until he had taken off the whole neighbourhood, for copies cf these individuals were staring at me from the walls of his studio, in every imaginable attitude. But he seemed to have had a particular goût for a knowing-looking young imp, whose saucy laughing image was duplicated, as an Irishman would say, on every wall of his house. This genius turned out to be the "Doctor's Boy;" and my host informed me with a smile, that he had ordered lots of physic for the express purpose of taking—not the medicine—but the bearer of it.
It was my turn now—I was his next victim; for I soon found it was no joke to sit, hour after hour, in a room, darkened except in one spot, and on that spot I was placed, and whereon, by means of folding shutters, hearth-rugs, and window-curtains, and other artistic contrivances, a bar of sunlight was directed so as to stream down upon my picturesque head; and although this arrangement appeared to afford my tormentor infinite satisfaction, yet the sun nearly baked me with its heat, and intensified my ugliness with its brilliancy.
There was something positively wonderful in his zeal for what he called his art. It was quite overpowering, and I obeyed him as it were involuntarily—his wants and wishes were to me as his will, and they became for a time the necessity that determined my motives and directed my actions.
"Head a little more to the right," he would say. "There, that will do—just so;—there, don't move until I catch that expression—thank you! Now please to look as though you had just answered some gratifying question."
By some miracle or other, the look I conjured up seemed to be what he wanted, though how it was done is more than I can imagine. In this way he chattered on, regardless of my personal ease, absorbed in his own pursuit, occasionally breaking out into a violent fit of ecstasy at the astonishing "effects" he had brought out with my nose. Gracious heavens! thought I, as I silently witnessed how indefatigably he toiled. What wonders may be performed by enthusiasm!
Hour after hour rolled on, and the sun got lower and lower, and no respite came. My head was evidently a tit-bit, which he took especial care to cook and dress tu his taste, for he seemed, as the hour of dinner arrived, to be riveted tighter than ever to his easel. I could, however, understand the cause of his zeal during the protracted leisure which the "sitting" afforded me for contemplation. He had languished under the tiresome sameness of abundance, a finished fortune, and completed hopes—anything for occupation. No such apathy had been my lot. I had for a life been immured in the feverish atmosphere of the city, and I yearned for the animated violences, and all the hurly-burly of the beach, with its bottom-sweeping seas, its foaming surfs, and invigorating gales. Alas! there I sat, in his elegant room, prisoned, a poor kidnapped victim—vacant, noteless, or sometimes napping brokenly, with no care to keep me awake, except how I might best prevent my heavy, drowsy head from rolling on the carpet.
At length dinner was announced, and, for that day at least, my wearisome labours were done ; but only to be renewed on the morrow; for after breakfast mine host came to me again, with the same bland, winning manner, declaring at the same time that he was quite ashamed to rob me of another bright day: "But really," continued he, "I am so convinced that we shall make such a likeness—besides, we are in such a capital pose, that you really must humour me! There, now," continued he, placing a chair for me, exactly on the same horrid spot I occupied yesterday, and forcing me into it, with a little amiable violence. So, yielding to his importunities, down I sat, and counted the same angles, crosses, and circles in the pattern of the carpet, through another brilliant summer's day.
And surely no scheme of torture ever surpassed what I endured that day and the one following, for I may as well state at once that he absorbed my "three glorious days." I endeavoured by every means in my power to sustain the fainting energies of my mind and body. I reflected upon the sufferings inflicted upon the Duke of Wellington and other illustrious individuals in this way, and I derived a sort of grim satisfaction from the knowledge that my misery was shared with others. I then speculated whether this particular sort of cruelty came within the meaning of "Martin's Act," and I felt convinced that it was unjust and unequal in its dispensation of punishment if it did not. At last, unable to support the intolerable monotony any longer, I fell asleep for a second, and started up with a feeling of having committed a kind of treason against good manners. This was the most palpable hint I had given my host of my exhaustion, but it had no other effect upon him than calling forth a fresh exhortation for further powers of endurance on my part, and then he should be able to finish by sundown. Well, to please him by an almost superhuman effort, I sat upright for five minutes, and then I caught myself napping again. Again I roused myself to renewed exertion. At last my host, like a good general, gave out his last orders, his tremendous warning, his "Up, guards, and at them!" his "England expects that every man will do his duty!" For with pompous solemnity he told me he was about to give my portrait the finishing touch, and he begged of me, entreated, nay, almost commanded me, if I had any love for his art, to keep my eyes open and my mouth shut for ten minutes more. I believe I behaved like a hero, for, though worn out in mind and body, and sick at heart and stomach, yet I managed to stare, nod, squint, and blink at him until he pronounced his chef-d'œuvre complete.
I wish I could describe the self-satisfied air of my tormentor, as he placed his labours in a good light, that I might enjoy a first view of his production, but that is impossible—I should be accused of amplification, of swelling out beyond the limits of nature and truth. It was evident from his manner that he expected to receive from me a large share of approbation, for his soul seemed too big for his body, and his perception of his own abilities was pitched on the most exalted scale. I believe I have already mentioned, that I am an ugly man, and for that reason I would have declined, if I could, having my portrait taken; it was, therefore, with a sickening foreboding of the truth that I turned my eyes towards the picture. It was just as I expected; there was my own impracticable countenance copied with a coarse fidelity, so far as related to everything you could swear to in a face, whether of flesh, blood, bone, gristle, hair or horn. I had several trifling excrescences on various parts of my face, and these were "stubborn facts," to which he had granted no indulgences. A nose was a nose, and an eye was an eye, and he would abide by them to the death.
I could now understand why he had, with such formidable gravity, taken the bulk and bearings of my nose, the width of my mouth, and the length and breadth of my forehead, for these he had as geometrically fixed on the canvas as a surveyor would the width of the Thames or the height of Shakspeare's Cliff on a map.
"But surely," said I, with a tinge of bitterness in my voice it was impossible to conceal, "but surely there are certain intimacies of the countenance, if I may be allowed such an expression, connected with the characteristics, peculiarities of temper and feelings which are inseparably blended with our thoughts, that are indispensable in a correct portrait."
"My dear friend," he replied, "there is no subject, perhaps, on which opinion runs into more unreasonable caprices than on this of likenesses in portraits."
"Indeed," said I.
"Yes: and this fact is the more extraordinary," he continued, "seeing that the matter is referable to definite rules and certain proportions."
"As far as eyes, nose and mouth are concerned," said I, "this may be true, but are there not certain mysterious lineaments, having nothing to do with the grosser attributes of mere features—certain fragile looks—tints and shadows of meaning, without which no portrait can be said to be a just representation of the original?"
But my artist was a matter-of-fact man; he either appeared not to comprehend me, or else his brush was incapable of arresting these fugitive shades of thought and expression. However, he was in ecstasies when I praised the vigorous reality with which he had delineated a bit of "still life," such as a prominent wart or lurking mole. He could, and in my case did, make a copy of all that he saw in my face—and yet it was not a likeness. The great cardinal signs of eyes, nose, and mouth were there, but he was incapable of doing the fancy-work—expression.
With suppressed emotions of regret and vexation I was compelled to order a packing-case from a neighbouring carpenter, to protect the odious daub from damage on its journey with me on the following morning to London. I was determined, however, that it should not long remind me of the torture I had endured, or of the delightful rambles it had been the occasion of my losing. For I internally swore, on the first convenient opportunity, to thrust it into the fire, and offer it up as a sacrifice to the memory of the "three glorious days" I had abandoned for its sake; vowing at the same time to resist for the future the cunning blandishments of all amateur artists who, attracted by my ugliness, might attempt to kidnap me to sit for my portrait.