The pictures were again packed up, and the brothers went out in quest of the secretary to the exhibition, in order to have them submitted to the committee for admission. The secretary received them with politeness; he said he was afraid that they could not find room for so many pieces as Mr Donaldson mentioned, for they wished to give every one a fair chance; but he desired him to forward the pictures, and he would see what could be done for them. The paintings were sent, and Peter heard no more of them for a week, when a printed catalogue and perpetual ticket were sent to him, with the secretary's compliments. Peter's eyes ran over the catalogue—at length they fell upon "No. 210. A Bridal Party—P. Donaldson," and again, "No. 230. Dead Game—P. Donaldson;" but his name did not again occur in the whole catalogue. This was a disappointment; but it was some consolation that his favourite piece had been chosen.
Next day the exhibition opened, and Peter and Paul visited it together. The Bridal Party was a small picture with a modest frame, and they anxiously sought round the room in which it was said to be placed; but they saw it not. At length, "Here it is," said Paul—and there indeed it was, thrust into a dark corner of the room, the frame touching the floor, literally crushed and overshadowed beneath a glaring battle piece, six feet in length, and with a frame seven inches in depth. It was impossible to examine it without going upon your knees. Peter's indignation knew no bounds. He would have torn the picture from its hiding-place, but Paul prevented him. They next looked for No. 230: and, to increase the indignation of the artist, it, with twenty others, was huddled into the passage, where, as Milton saith, there
"No light, but rather darkness visible;"
or, as Spenser hath it—
"A little gloomy light, much like a shade."
For fourteen days did Peter visit the exhibition, and return to the lodgings of his brother, sorrowful and disappointed. The magical word SOLD was not yet attached to the painting which was to redeem his father's property.
One evening, Paul being engaged with his pupils, the artist had gone into a tavern, to drown the bitterness of his disappointment for a few moments with a bottle of ale. The keenness of his feelings had rendered him oblivious; and in his abstraction and misery he had spoken aloud of his favourite painting, the Bridal Party. Two young gentlemen sat in the next box; they either were not in the room when he entered, or he did not observe them. They overheard the monologue to which the artist had unconsciously given utterance, and it struck them as a prime jest to lark with his misery. The words "Splendid piece, yon Bridal Party!"—"Beautiful!"—"Production of a master!"—"Wonderful that it sold in such a bad light and shameful situation!" fell upon Peter's ears. He started up—he hurried round the box where they sat—
"Gentlemen," he exclaimed, eagerly, "do you speak of the painting No. 210 in the exhibition?"
"Of the same, sir," was the reply.
"I am the artist—I painted it," cried Peter.