The Mysterious Artist.
(Continued.)
It was night, and the studio of Murillo, the most celebrated painter in Seville—this studio, which, during the day, was so animated and cheerful—was now silent as the grave. A single lamp burned upon a marble table, and a young boy, whose sable hue harmonized with the surrounding darkness, but whose eyes sparkled like diamonds at midnight, leaned against an easel, immovable and still. He was so deeply absorbed in his meditations that the door of the studio was opened by one, who several times called him by name, and who, on receiving no answer, approached and touched him. Sebastian raised his eyes, which rested on a tall and handsome mulatto.
“Why do you come here, father?” said he, in a melancholy tone.
“To keep you company, Sebastian.”
“There is no need, father; I can watch alone.”
“But what if the Zombi should come?”
“I do not fear him,” replied the boy, with a pensive smile.
“He may carry you away, my son, and then the poor negro Gomez will have no one to console him in his slavery.”
“Oh, how sad, how dreadful it is to be a slave!” exclaimed the boy, weeping bitterly.
“It is the will of God,” replied the negro, with an air of resignation.
“God!” ejaculated Sebastian, as he raised his eyes to the dome of the studio, through which the stars glittered—“God! I pray constantly to him, father, (and I hope he will one day listen to me,) that we may no longer be slaves. But go to bed, father; go, go; and I shall go to mine there in that corner, and I shall soon fall asleep. Good night, father, good night.”
“Are you really not afraid of the Zombi, Sebastian?”
“My father, that is a superstition of our country. Father Eugenio has assured me that God does not permit supernatural beings to appear on earth.”
“Why then, when the pupils asked you who sketched the figures they find here every morning, did you say it was the Zombi?”
“To amuse myself, father, and to make them laugh; that was all.”
“Then good night, my son;” and, having kissed the boy, the mulatto retired.
The moment Sebastian found himself alone, he uttered an exclamation of joy. Then, suddenly checking himself, he said, “Seventy-five lashes to-morrow if I do not tell who sketched these figures, and perhaps more if I do. O my God, come to my aid!” and the little mulatto threw himself upon the mat, which served him for a bed, where he soon fell fast asleep.
Sebastian awoke at daybreak; it was only three o’clock. Any other boy would probably have gone to sleep again; not so Sebastian, who had but three hours he could call his own.
“Courage, courage, Sebastian,” he exclaimed, as he shook himself awake; “three hours are thine—only three hours—then profit by them; the rest belong to thy master, slave! Let me at least be my own master for three short hours. So begin; these figures must be effaced;” and, seizing a brush, he approached the virgin, which, viewed by the soft light of the morning dawn, appeared more beautiful. than ever.
“Efface this!” he exclaimed, “efface this! no! I will die first—efface this—they dare not—neither dare I. No! that head—she breathes—she speaks—it seems as if her blood would flow if I should offer to efface it, and I should be her murderer. No, no, no; rather let me finish it.”
Scarcely had he uttered these words, when, seizing a palette, he seated himself at the easel, and was soon totally absorbed in his occupation. Hour after hour passed unheeded by Sebastian, who was too much engrossed by the beautiful creation of his pencil, which seemed bursting into life, to mark the flight of time. “Another touch,” he exclaimed, “a soft shade here—now the mouth. Yes! there! it opens—those eyes—they pierce me through!—what a forehead!—what delicacy! Oh my beautiful—” and Sebastian forgot the hour, forgot he was a slave, forgot his dreaded punishment—all, all was obliterated from the soul of the youthful artist, who thought of nothing, saw nothing, but his beautiful picture.
But who can describe the horror and consternation of the unhappy slave, when, on suddenly turning round, he beheld all the pupils, with the master at their head, standing beside him.
Sebastian never once dreamt of justifying himself, and with his palette in one hand, and his brushes in the other, he hung down his head, awaiting in silence the punishment he believed he justly merited. For some moments a dead silence prevailed; for if Sebastian was confounded at being caught in the commission of such a flagrant crime, Murillo and his pupils were not less astonished at the discovery they had made.
Murillo, having, with a gesture of the hand, imposed silence on his pupils, who could hardly restrain themselves from giving way to their admiration, approached Sebastian, and concealing his emotion, said, in a cold and severe tone, while he looked alternately from the beautiful head of the virgin to the terrified slave, who stood like a statue before him,
“Who is your master, Sebastian?”
“You,” replied the boy, in a voice scarcely audible.
“I mean your drawing-master,” said Murillo.
“You, Senor,” again replied the trembling slave.
“It cannot be; I never gave you lessons,” said the astonished painter.
“But you gave them to others, and I listened to them,” rejoined the boy, emboldened by the kindness of his master.
“And you have done better than listen—you have profited by them,” exclaimed Murillo, unable longer to conceal his admiration. “Gentlemen, does this boy merit punishment, or reward?”
At the word punishment, Sebastian’s heart beat quick; the word reward gave him a little courage; but, fearing that his ears deceived him, he looked with timid and imploring eyes towards his master.
“A reward, Senor!” cried the pupils, in a breath.
“That is well; but what shall it be?”
Sebastian began to breathe.
“Ten ducats, at least,” said Mendez.
“Fifteen,” cried Ferdinand.
“No,” said Gonzalo; “a beautiful new dress for the next holiday.”
“Speak, Sebastian,” said Murillo, looking at his slave, whom none of these rewards seemed to move; “are these things not to your taste? Tell me what you wish for. I am so much pleased with your beautiful composition, that I will grant any request you may make. Speak, then; do not be afraid.”
“Oh, master, if I dared—” and Sebastian, clasping his hands, fell at the feet of his master. It was easy to read in the half-opened lips of the boy and his sparkling eyes some devouring thoughts within, which timidity prevented him from uttering.
With the view of encouraging him, each of the pupils suggested some favor for him to demand.
“Ask gold, Sebastian.”
“Ask rich dresses, Sebastian.”
“Ask to be received as a pupil, Sebastian.”
A faint smile passed over the countenance of the slave at the last words, but he hung down his head and remained silent.
“Ask for the best place in the studio,” said Gonzalo, who, from being the last pupil, had the worst light for his easel.
“Come, take courage,” said Murillo gaily.
“The master is so kind to-day,” said Ferdinand, “that I would risk something. Ask your freedom, Sebastian.”
At these words Sebastian uttered a cry of anguish, and raising his eyes to his master, he exclaimed, in a voice choked with sobs, “The freedom of my father! the freedom of my father!”
“And thine, also,” said Murillo, who, no longer able to conceal his emotion, threw his arms around Sebastian, and pressed him to his breast.
“Your pencil,” he continued, “shows that you have talent; your request proves that you have a heart; the artist is complete. From this day, consider yourself not only as my pupil, but my son. Happy Murillo! I have done more than paint—I have made a painter!”
Murillo kept his word, and Sebastian Gomez, known better under the name of the mulatto of Murillo, became one of the most celebrated painters in Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he had been found painting by his master; also a St. Anne, admirably done; a holy Joseph, which is extremely beautiful; and others of the highest merit.
At a crowded lecture the other evening, a young lady standing at the door of the church was addressed by an honest Hibernian, who was in attendance on the occasion, with, “Indade, Miss, I should be glad to give you a sate, but the empty ones are all full.”