LITTLE ADRIAN.
I wonder if you like pictures as well as I do? I dare say your father may have hung some on his parlor, or study, or chamber walls, and perhaps you have often sat alone in those rooms, looking at them and thinking. They were pleasant company for you—you liked the shapely trees and contented cattle, the beautiful clouds, and the grass that you could almost see waving, as the fragrant breeze swept by. You thought, perhaps, how well the artist must have studied nature, and with what a loving eye, thus successfully to create it; and you imagined, perhaps, that his heart was as tranquil and unruffled, while at his work, as the clear lake you saw in his picture. I remember thinking so, when I was a child, and wishing I, too, were an artist, that, when the storm raged without, and the chill rain cameslanting down, I could still create sunny skies, and blooming, fadeless flowers. I did not know then, what I know now, how painfully many artists struggle up to notice from poverty and obscurity; what a sad history those pictures, could they only speak, might tell of sleepless nights and hungry days, and fireless hearths (for it is adversity that brings out the strength of our natures). I did not think of the wealth and fame which come so often only to the filming eye and palsied hand of age, and then to be left at the grave’s brink. I did not know, what I know now, that they who have genius in any department of art, stand upon a dizzy pinnacle, what with those who, unable to reach the same elevation themselves, and who would fain throw or pull them down, and what with the danger that they themselves should lose sight of the thorny path by which they reached it, and, satisfied with human applause, never think that upon every gift, every talent, should be written “Holiness to the Lord.” I did not reflect that by so much as talent increases influence, by so much it places in the hands of its possessor the means of improving and benefiting, as well as amusing and delighting, those for whom this short life isbut the porch to the temple whose splendors they whose garments are washed white, alone shall surely see. And how beautiful, how fitting it is, that at His feet who bestowed the gift of genius, its fruit should be laid.
No; these thoughts came with after years, when I went out into the world; but now, I never look at a beautiful picture or statue, or read an interesting book, that I do not think of these things; and when I read of an artist who, with great powers, paints pictures which harm the looker on, and influence him to evil—for pictures, though tongueless, have eloquent voices; when I read of a great artist, who can command any price, how large soever, for anything he may choose to paint, yet often wanting a meal of victuals, not because he gave it to the poor, but because he swallowed it all in the wine cup, and only rouses himself to work when he wants more, oh! then I feel sorrier than I can tell you; for genius is not an every-day gift, and life is short enough to learn our lessons for eternity, without pulling the minute hands of time forward.
It is pleasant to see artists and men of talent honored by kings and princes. I once heard astory of the Emperor Maximilian and the painter Albert Durer, which pleased me very much. Durer was painting on a wall of the palace one day, in presence of the emperor and his courtiers. He was a small man, and being unable to reach sufficiently high to complete the upper part of one of the figures he was painting, he looked around for something to raise him higher. The emperor, noticing this, ordered one of the gentlemen present to hand him a stool. The courtier was very angry at this; he considered the artist beneath him, and so he handed it to him in a very ungracious manner, muttering as he did so.
The emperor heard him, and turning sharply round, made him this proper and noble answer: “Sir, I can make a noble out of a peasant any day, but I cannot form an ignoramus into a man of genius like Durer.” I think the pompous courtier must have blushed a little at this, or, if he did not, so much the worse for him.
There was once a little boy, named Adrian. His mother was a poor peasant, and little Adrian used to sit on the floor with a pencil and paper in his hand, to keep him out of mischief. By and by his mother, seeing him very busy with hisdrawing, peeped over his shoulder, and lo! there, upon the paper, were beautiful birds and flowers, and all sorts of pretty things, which the little rogue had drawn; for he did not know, any more than his mother, that he was an artist. Still, his mother thought them very pretty—what mother wouldn’t, had they been ever so ugly?—and it occurred to her that she could copy in needlework those pretty pictures, on the caps and neckerchiefs she was in the habit of embroidering, to sell to the peasant women who came to market. One day, while little Adrian sat in the shop where his mother sold her needlework, an artist happened to pass, and, stopping at the window, watched through the glass the little Adrian as he drew the patterns. After a while he went in, and asked the boy if he would not like to become an artist. “Oh, yes!” he almost screamed out; “better than anything in this world, if my mother is only willing!” The poor woman was glad enough of the offer, and little Adrian went home with his master as happy—not “as a king,” for that’s a lying phrase—but as happy as a little robin of a bright spring morning.
Oh, how diligently he worked, and how fasthe learned what was taught him! His master had no need to rap him over the knuckles with “Come, come, what are you thinking about?” not at all; he scarcely lifted his eyes from his work, so eager was he. His master had other pupils, but he took Adrian away from them, and shut him up in a little attic in the top of the house, to draw. The other scholars didn’t like this, for Adrian was very good company, and they all liked him; besides, they did not see the reason why he should be shut up there, and they felt curious to find it out. So one day, when the master was out, they stole softly up to the attic, and peeping through a window, saw the poor little prisoner painting very beautiful pictures for his jailer, who used to sell them, and pocket the money for himself.
It was very lucky that they found him, for he had become very thin and emaciated, what with hard work and poor food. The boys told Adrian that he was a great artist, though he did not know it, and that he might earn a great deal of money; and they offered, if he could draw some pictures slily, to sell them for him when his master did not know it, and get him some pocketmoney, for his own use. The hungry little boy artist was delighted at this, and soon found means to do it; but his cruel master and his wife soon found it out, and put a stop to it, by watching him so closely that it was quite impossible. Then the poor child grew thinner and thinner, until one of the boys contrived a plan for him to escape; in the daytime he wandered in the back streets, and at night he curled himself up in the organ loft of one of the churches, and all the time he was turning over plans in his bewildered head for the future. One day, while he was thus situated, he met a person who had once seen him at his master’s house. “Why,” said he to Adrian, looking pityingly at his thin figure, “have you left your master’s roof?” The child began to cry, for he was quite worn out, and besides, was overcome by the kind manner of his questioner, so different from that of his old master. So he very honestly told him the truth, and why he had run away. His pale face, his sobs, and his wretched clothes were so many proofs of the truth of his story, and the gentleman said, “If you will agree to return to your master, I will talk to him, and see that he treats you better in future.” While all this wasgoing on, his old master Hals had hunted everywhere for him, for he could ill afford to part with so valuable a pupil. One would suppose that this thought, if no better one, would have made Hals treat him better; but, after all, avarice is very short-sighted, though it is said to be so keen.
Well, of course, he was overjoyed to get Adrian back, caressed him, and gave him a new suit of clothes, and all that, so that the innocent, trusting child really believed all that he said was gospel truth, and commenced painting again, with so much industry and so well, that his master got larger prices than ever for his little drawings. Still, the miserly Hals never gave Adrian any of it, and so Adrian made up his mind that, as fair promises would neither feed nor clothe him, he would run away again. This time he planned better, for he ran so far his master couldn’t find him—way off into another city, and took refuge with an innkeeper, who liked artists, because his own son was one, though, like many other children, nobody thought him famous but his own father. He soon grew cheerful, and fat, and merry, under kind treatment; it is a blessed thing, is it not? that youth is so elastic—that it is alwaysready, after a disappointment, to begin again with fresh courage. For a while, Adrian kept steadily at his work, and to his delight and astonishment, they brought him higher prices than ever, though no one knew who the artist was. One day he came panting home to his friend the innkeeper in a great state of excitement. His pockets were full of gold—he could scarcely believe it was not all a dream. He emptied it all out on the bed, and then jumped into the middle of it, that he might, as he said, know how it felt for once “to roll in wealth.” Well, we can pardon him that. None but they who have been kicked and cuffed round the world, and had a crust of bread thrown grudgingly at them, can understand the full deliciousness of independence, especially when that independence is the result of their own honest labor. Adrian had a right to wave his hat in the air; and, had I been there, I would have helped him hurra! and when we had finished, I would have said, “Now you have felt how uncomfortable a thing poverty is—don’t squander that money foolishly, because it was quickly earned; put it away safely, where it may do you and others good, and keep on working.” But, I am sorry totell you that Adrian did neither. He gathered up all his money, left the house, and did not return for more than a week. On his return, his friend the innkeeper asked him what he had done with his money. “All gone!” said the foolish fellow; “I’ve not a bit left.” And that is the way he went on—first a fit of work, then a fit of wasteful dissipation. He earned a great deal, and spent more than he earned; so that he who might have been so free and independent, was constantly obliged to be running away from those to whom he owed money. Was it not a pity? On one of these occasions, he forgot to provide himself with what is called a passport,i. e., permission from the government to pass from one city to another; and because he had not this permission, they supposed him to be a spy, and threw him into prison. Confined in the same prison was a certain duke, to whom he told his pitiful story, assuring him that he was no spy, but only an artist who had come to that city to follow his profession. Of course, the duke did not know whether he was fibbing or not; he had only the artist’s own word for it. Adrian saw this, so he said, “Bring me painting materials, and I’ll soon prove to you that what Isay is true.” The duke, having a friend in the city who was a great artist, had a mind to try him. So he got his friend to procure Adrian, the suspected spy, the materials he desired. Just below the windows of his cell, a group of soldiers were assembled, playing cards. This scene Adrian painted, and so well, that every man’s figure was a complete portrait in itself. The duke was delighted, and sent for his friend the artist, to see what his opinion might be. The moment he saw it, he exclaimed, “It must be Adrian Brauwer’s; no other artist could paint with such force and beauty!” and immediately offered a high price for it. But the duke would not part with it. It was painted under singular circumstances, and was, besides, a very beautiful picture. He immediately interested himself with the governor to get Adrian out of prison, which he succeeded in doing, and then, being liberated himself, he took Adrian home to his own house, gave him new suits of clothes, and tried to keep him from wasting his talents and time, and throwing himself away on bad companions. You will be sorry to know that it was quite useless; sorry to know that his bad passions had become, from indulgence, his tyrants,so that he was no longer his own master, but theirs; sorry to know that he ran away from the house of his benefactor, sold the very clothes he gave him, mixed with all sorts of bad people in loathsome places, till finally, destitute and diseased, he was carried to one of the public hospitals, where, unknown by any who had admired his talents, and pitied his follies, he died miserably, at the early age of thirty-two, and was buried in a cemetery among the paupers. When the duke, his benefactor, heard of this, he shed tears at the melancholy end of a life which might have been so useful, so honored, and so honorable. He ordered the corpse to be taken up from its pauper grave, gave it a funeral in a church, and designed a monument for the erring man, which last, however, was never accomplished, as he died himself soon after.
It is pleasant to turn from so sad a story to that of other artists, who labored on, though steeped to the very lips in poverty, for loving wives and children, who, in turn, did all in their power to lighten the artists’ toil. Living lives full of love, and without reproach, creating beautywhen everything around them was miserably shabby and forlorn—everything but the love and patient endurance which can make out of the dreariest earthly home a heaven.