by Edward Youl.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William & Mary Howitt) vol.2 #52 (25 Dec 1847).
Chapter XII.
It was in an obscure cottage at Deptford, that Grinling Gibbons was engaged upon his celebrated work The Stoning of Stephen, when he was discovered by Evelyn, and introduced to the notice of Charles II. It was in the Fleet Prison, that William Harding essayed his skill in bas-relief. He chose for his subject The Raising of Lazarus. Gibbons followed Tintoretto. Harding studied the narrative in the New Testament, and sketched his own design. He was on wondrous ground now. It seemed extraordinary that he had never done this before; that he had been so slow to discover his own ready access to the Beautiful. It was as natural to carve fruit or flowers, as to gather them from the living branch or stem. It was as easy too. It was astonishing that he found no difficulty in his work,—that Art came to him like a ready friend, and, at the first handling of his tools, made him perfect in the use of them. The same marvel is recorded of Grinling Gibbons, whose earliest efforts were as successful as his latest. 1t must not be inferred that Harding was another Gibbons, or even a Dievot, a Selden, or a Laurens, Grinling's assistants. But he gave promise of much excellence. And here, let me express a hope, that this ancient and noble art of wood-carving, which, according to Pliny, was antecedent to statuary and painting, may be revived amongst us, and that our artists may be original, and not mere imitators of the Italian style, which is itself imitative, and dates from the discovery of the baths of Adrian. With the solitary exception of Grinling Gibbons, who is said to have been of Dutch extraction, the English have not been celebrated as wood-artists. The splendid and elaborate decorations in oak, lime, maple, and sometimes, but rarely, in box, that embellish our palaces, cathedrals, public and private buildings, were mostly executed by foreigners. With the one exception named, where are the equals of Albert Durer, of his pupil Taurigny of Rouen, of Demontreuil, of a hundred others?
While Harding was engaged in sketching his design, Scheffer was imparting encouragement to Emma. On the issue of the next rehearsal, her success or failure would depend. M. Jean Massom announced on all sides, that Madame Cacasi would be the public favourite, and that she was his wife. The singularity of his previous conduct was now fully explained, and Emma was no longer unable to assign a cause for his ungracious behaviour to herself. Scheffer learned the whole secret, and communicated it to her. He had fallen in love with his landiady's blooming daughter. who, besides many personal attractions, (maugre, a certain insipidity of countenance, which Maberly. had commented on) had a voice that promised to repay cultivation. The poor Signor could not resist her blandishments. Emma might have gained him reputation, but she was a married woman. He had already extolled her as Madame Cacasi, and prepared the public for her future appearance. But her real name was unknown, and it was easy to bestow the appellation he had given her, on another. Besides, Emma's education must necessarily be suspended during his professional absence on the Continent, for he could not remain in London when the Grand Theatre was closed. On the other hand, a wife would accompany him wherever he went, and her education could proceed at all seasons. Thus argued the Signor, and sacrificed to passion the dictates of honour. But now he cast off the mask, and proclaimed Madame Cacasi, to be in public, the Signora Pepolini, and Madame Masson, in private, and to her friends.
The morning of the rehearsal came. Out of the heavens God never sent a brighter day. The earth laughed beneath the sun. Cheeks, ordinarily pale, had a flush of life in them. Her husband's liberty, perhaps, their future bread, depended on her brave achievement, or unhappy short-coming. She would not fatigue herself by walking, but engaged a cab to convey her to the theatre. Her first annoyance was extreme. The manager was not present,—would not be present, but had deputed M. Jean Masson, to represent him.
She had many annoyances to bear. The musicians were late at their post, and there was much tiresome waiting to be endured before the rehearsal began. Then, the actors were frigid and impatient, and the opera was commenced in a slovenly mamner, In vain Scheffer strove to rally them, He drew Emma aside, and encouraged her, but he felt dismay, and looked thunderbolts at Masson. Nevertheless, Emma succeeded, for she was lifted into a higher life at the thought of her husband's striving, since their marriage for their joint bread. And had he not said that the Beautiful was the true Bread? and was not she ministering, imperfectly, it might be, but still ministering, to the Beautiful? Was she not, indeed, its Priestess?
Her success was indisputable. M: Jean Masson acknowledged it, and joined with all present, in laudation of the cantatrice. Scheffer was so overpowered with joy, that he accepted a pinch of snuff from Masson's box, and promised to smoke a cigar with him on some future, but indefinite occasion.
She hurried to the prison; and fell upon her husband's neck. He was sketching his conception of the narrative he had undertaken to illustrate in wood. He gently put her aside.
"See," he said. "Jesus stands in this attitude."
"I have succeeded;" she cried, embracing him.
"And Lazarus comes forth thus. Thus the disciples stand!"
"Still, my success of to-day is nothing, if I should fail when the public fill the theatre."
"But Martha and Mary are wanting to the group; confiding in Jesus, yet hoping against hope. Now, he comes forth, he casts aside the grave clothes, they see,—they believe. How should I represent the sisters of Lazarus?"
"William, do you hear me? I have succeeded. M. Jean Masson could not deny it. Are you not glad? Do you not understand me?"
"Yes,—yes, of course you have succeeded. I never doubted of your success. God is good."
M. Jean Masson, on leaving the theatre, went direct to the house of the manager.
'She was not so bad, really not so bad,—quite creditable," he said. "But she must not lead, at least, in your theatre;—positively must not."
"She has avoided a failure, then?" said the manager.
"Yes, that is it; avoided a failure. The Signora will be very excellent."
"I have made up my mind to delay the the production of the opera. We will rehearse it again, and the Signora shall sustain the leading role. Between ourselves, Masson, I do not want this Mrs. Harding. It was only yesterday that Lord Filmy Gossamer told me of the report that she was the wife of a low fellow, a cheesemonger's shopman, who is now in a prison. The connection would not be respectable. I shall break with her."
"But the Signora is my wife."
"Ah, quite a different matter. You are respectable, the Signora is respectable."
Masson had scarcely departed, when Scheffer arrived. The manager received him coldly, but he was too elated to notice it.
"Splendid success," he cried. "This will be a memorable season in the annals of your theatre. Your treasury will be filled. The public will be in raptures. You will of course, suspend all privileges, but those of the press."
"Humph."
"What do you mean?"
"That I shall do as you say,—fill my treasury."
"Undoubtedly. Such a voice! such execution!"
"So sly of him, to call her Madam Cacasi, when she was his wife all the time."
"His wife—whose wife?"
"Masson's."
"Diable. I am talking of Mrs. Harding."
"And I, of Madame Masson."
"Yes, but it is Mrs. Harding, who will fill your treasury."
"I think it will be the Signora Pepolini."
"Let us understand each other. You intend, of course, after the unequivocal success of this morning, to introduce Mrs. Harding: to the stage?"
"Really, I must decline the honour. Try the provinces."
"Are you then not a man of your word? You are committed with Mrs. Harding. She has attended six rehearsals. Masson's wife has never been on your boards. You have never heard her sing. You will be open to an action, let me tell you."
"Scheffer," said the manager, laying a hand familiarly on the tenor's shoulder. "You are a man of sense. Mrs. Harding is a good singer. I know it very well. She was weak, the other day—perhaps, through indisposition; but I am quite satisfied with your report of her success this morning. Do you not know, however, that she has low connections,—that her husband is a cheesemonger's shopman? All the world knows it."
"All the world is mistaken, then," returned the irate Scheffer, "He is a man of talent and education. I see the Times on your table. Allow me. There," he continued; pointing to an advertisement. "What do you say to that? 'A translation of the Comedies of Aristophanes. By William Harding.' That is the man, sir—that is her husband. A first-rate Greek scholar, sir."
"Are you sure that there is no error, Herr Scheffer? I wish I had known this yesterday, when Lord Filmy Gossamer said to me, 'He ts so low.' Dear me, a Greek scholar, Eh? A gentleman, Eh?"
"Certainly; a gentleman; under a cloud, at present, but quite in a gentlemanly way."
"Explain."
"He borrowed money on a Post Obit Bond, and is now residing in the Fleet. Nothing more gentlemanly."
"Nothing. Dear me, borrowed money, did he? Then he had expectations?"
"His father died worth twelve thousand pounds, the other day."
"You astonish me. Why, he is quite a gentleman."
"Quite. And, between ourselves, there are strange reports about Masson."
"Ha!"
"He pays nobody. There was a writ issued against him this morning. It will be served to-day."
"That is his affair. He is still a gentleman."
"¥es; but his wife is no singer."
"Have you heard her?"
"Frequently: I have had every opportunity of judging. She might do for another House, but not for your's. Your theatre has so high a reputation."
"It has. I have worked hard for it. I have done it myself, Scheffer."
"Everybody knows that. Your skill in catering for the public taste is excellent. And you manage so well to repress the jealousies of your actors. Your word—what do I say?—your nod is Law in your Establishment."
"It is kind of you to say so. But you only do me justice."
"And you have an excellent discernment of rising talent."
"I pique myself upon it."
"With every disposition to foster merit."
"Yes. The stage owes some of its brightest ornaments to me."
"I am confident that Mrs. Harding's debut will create a sensation. When shall it come off?"
"Her husband is quite a gentleman. We will say Monday for the debut."
"Shall I write the advertisement for the papers?"
"I shall be obliged to you if you will. My hands are full."
There is little need that I should lengthen this history. Emma succeeded and opened the prison gates for her husband. On the day that he was restored to liberty, M. Jean Masson passed through the same gates as a prisoner. Indeed, Harding, with his delighted wife hanging on his arm, encountered him in the porter's lodge.
"Helas!" he said, addressing his old acquaintances, in explanation of their meeting. "They say that I
have run over the policeman."
"No, no, Moseer," interposed the tipstaff who accompanied him. "Them's not my words. I said that gents came here for overrunning the constable. That's what he means, ma'am."
Harding and Emma passed into the street without speaking to him. * * * *
Had Harding found his work—that work which he was specially sent to do? I know not. If he had brought his entire moral being into harmony with nature; if he had subdued all discord in his soul, he had. For us, he exists no longer; but let him represent a thousand young men, who are thrown into society without a fitting profession, or with no profession. I have not intended to depict the life-long struggle for daily corn-bread, which characterises the existence of the oppressed and neglected, the "hewers of wood and drawers of water." But, inasmuch as Bread is the Beautiful, and the Beautiful is Virtue, it may also be found by them. I acknowledge the difficulty. I anticipate the objection. What can they know of the Spiritual and the Eternal, whose toil for the material and the temporal, for the need of the perishing hour is unceasing from childhood to the grave? Alas, but little; but something they can and do know. The soul will burst its bonds, and Virtue enters the tenant's hut as freely as the hall of the landlord. What I insist upon, is that, in our vicious society, we hear too much of the bread that the baker has kneaded. "O most excellent person," said Socrates, before his judges. "Art thou not ashamed that thou studiest to possess as much money as possible, and reputation and honour—but concernest not thyself about intellect and truth, and the well-being of thy mental nature? These, as you well know, are the commands of the God. And it appears to me that no good can happen to the state greater than my service of the God; for I pass my whole time inciting both the young and the old, to care neither for body nor estate, in preference to, nor in comparison with, the excellence of the soul, telling them that wealth does not produce virtue, but virtue, wealth, and all other good things to mankind, both collectively and individually."