Charles Lever - The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. I (of II)

“Who is it you want, man?”

“Faix, and I don’t even know that same!” replied the artist; “but” – and he lowered his voice to a whisper as he spoke – “he’s an elegant study, – as fine a head and face and as beautiful a beard as ever you saw. I met him at Kyle’s Wood a week ago, begging; and what with his fine forehead and deep-set blue eyes, his long white hair, and his great shaggy eyebrows, I said to myself: ‘Belisarius,’ says I, ‘by all that’s grand, – a Moses, a Marino Faliero, or a monk in a back parlor discoursing to an old skull and a vellum folio, – any one of these,’ says I, ‘not to speak of misers, money-lenders, or magicians, as well;’ and so I coaxed him down here on Saturday last, and put him somewhere to sleep, with a good supper and a pint of spirits, and may I never, if I know where I left him.”

“Three days ago?”

“Just so; and worse than all, I shut up the place quite dark, and only made a hole in the roof, just to let a fine Rembrandt light fall down on his head. Oh, then, it’s no laughing matter, Maurice! Sure if anything happened to him – ”

“Your life wouldn’t be worth sixpence before any jury in the county.”

“Begad! it’s what I was thinking; if they wouldn’t take it as a practical joke.”

“You’re looking for ould Brennan!” cried a weather-beaten hag; “but he’s gone to Oughterard for a summons. You’ll pay dear for your tricks this time, anyhow.”

“Come up here, Simmy, and never mind her,” said Scanlan; then, turning to Nelligan, he added, “There’s not such a character in the county!

“I want my friend, Mr. Nelligan, here – Mr. Nelligan – Mr. Crow – I want him, I say, to come up and have a look at the great ‘Historical ‘ – eh, Simmy! – would n’t it astonish him?”

“Are you a votary of art, sir?” asked Crow, modestly.

“I ‘ve never seen what could be called a picture, except those portraits in the College Examination Hall might be deemed such.”

“Indeed, and they’re not worthy the name, sir. Flood, mayhap, is like, but he’s hard and stiff, and out of drawing; and Lord Clare is worse. It’s in the Low Countries you ‘d see portraits, real portraits! men that look down on you out of the canvas, as if you were the intruder there, and that they were waiting to know what brought you. A sturdy old Burgomaster, for instance, with a red-brown beard and a fierce pair of eyes, standing up firm as a rock on a pair of legs that made many a drawbridge tremble as he walked home to dinner on the Grand Canal, at Rotterdam, after finishing some mighty bargain for half a spice island, or paying a million of guilders down as a dowry for that flaxen-haired, buxom damsel in the next frame. Look at the dimples in her neck, and mark the folds in her satin. Is n’t she comely, and calm, and haughty, and house-wifery, all together? Mind her foot, it isn’t small, but see the shape of it, and the way it presses the ground – ay, just so – my service to you; but you are one there ‘s no joking with, even if one was alone with you.” And he doffed his hat, and bowed obsequiously as he spoke.

“You’re an enthusiast for your art?” said Nelligan, interested by the unmistakable sincerity of his zeal.

“I am, sir,” was the brief reply.

“And the painter’s is certainly a glorious career.”

“If for nothing else,” burst in Crow, eagerly, “that it can make of one like me – poor, ignorant, and feeble, as I am – a fellow-soldier in the same army with Van Dyke and Titian and Velasquez – to know that in something that they thought, or hoped, or dared, or tried to do, I too have my share! You think me presumptuous to say this; you are sneering at such a creature as Simmy Crow for the impudence of such a boast, but it’s in humility I say it, ay, in downright abject humility; for I ‘d rather have swept out Rembrandt’s room, and settled his rough boards on Cuyp’s easel, than I ‘d be a – a – battle-axe guard, or a lord-in-waiting, or anything else you like, that’s great and grand at court.”

“I envy you a pursuit whose reward is in the practice rather than in the promise,” said Nelligan, thoughtfully. “Men like myself labor that they may reach some far-away land of rewards and successes, and bear the present that they may enjoy the future.”

“Ay, but it will repay you well, by all accounts,” said Crow. “Miss Mary told us last night how you had beat every one out of the field, and had n’t left a single prize behind you.”

“Who said this?” cried Joe, eagerly.

“Miss Mary, – Miss Martin. She said it was a credit to us all of the west, here, that there was one, at least, from Galway, who could do something besides horse-racing and cock-fighting – ”

“So she did,” said Scanlan, interrupting, with some confusion. “She said somebody had told her of young Nelligan. She called you ‘Young Nelligan.’”

“No, no; it was to myself she said it, and the words were, ‘Mr. Joseph Nelligan;’ and then, when her uncle said, ‘Why don’t we know him? ‘ – ”

“My dear Simmy, you make a most horrible confusion when you attempt a story, – out of canvas. Mind, I said out of canvas; for I confess that in your grand ‘Historical’ the whole incident is admirably detailed. I ‘ve just said to my friend here, that he has a great pleasure before him in seeing that picture.”

“If you ‘ll do me the honor to look at it,” said Crow, bowing courteously, “when you come to dinner to-day.”

“Attend to me , Joe,” said Scanlan, passing an arm within Nelligan’s, and leading him away to another part of the room; “that fellow is little better than an idiot. But I was just going to tell you what Martin said. ‘You are intimate with young Nelligan,’ said he; ‘you know him well, and you could possibly do without awkwardness what with more formality might be difficult. Don’t you think, then, that he would possibly waive ceremony – ‘”

“I must be off,” broke in Crow, hastily. “I have a sitting at twelve o’clock, so I hope we shall see you at seven, Mr. Nelligan; your note said seven, sharp.” And without waiting for more, he seized his hat and hurried down the stairs.

“A downright fool!” said Scanlan, angrily. “Mr. Martin said he ‘d write to you, if – if – if, in fact, you stood upon that punctilio; but that he’d be all the better pleased if you ‘d just accept acquaintance as freely as he offered it, and come and dine there to-day, like a friend.”

“Is n’t there, or has there not been, some difference between him and my father?” asked Joe.

“A trifle, – and a mistake; the kind of thing that two men of calm heads and common sense could have settled in five minutes, and which, to say the truth, Martin was right in throughout. It’s all passed and over now, however, and it would be worse than foolish to revive it. There ‘s Miss Martin!” cried he, “and I have a word to say to her;” and hurried off without waiting for more. As he passed from the room, however, a letter fell from his pocket; and as Nelligan stooped to take it up, he saw that it was addressed to himself. He looked hesitatingly at it for a moment or two, scarcely knowing whether or not he ought to break the seal. “It was meant for me, at all events,” said he, and opened it. The contents were as follows; —

“Mr. Martin presents his respects to Mr. Joseph Nelligan, and will feel happy if – excusing the want of formal introduction – Mr. Nelligan will admit him to the honor of acquaintance, and give him the pleasure of his society at dinner, to-morrow, at seven o’clock. Mr. Martin does not hesitate to say that to accept this unceremonious proposal will be felt as a very great favor indeed by him and his family.”