Rensselaer Union, Volume 9, Number 27, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 March 1877 — CELESTIAL PEAS. [ARTICLE]

CELESTIAL PEAS.

If, as some people %re trying to prove, the straight line is the line of beauty, is not pie square root the root of all true art, and doesn’t that explain perfectly how the Profeswor and the little Portrait Painter catne to beAttfch friends? If that explanation will not do, there mtrSt be so Die other equally clear, forthey certainly were too opposite for any simpler cement to hold them together. The Professor had hardly ever thought of anything since he was born, except as a question of calculus, to be figured or prefigured in some mathematical fashion or other; while, as for the little Portrait Painter, everything, pretty much, stood across his sky like a fragment, at least, of a rainbow—form andcofoo—that was all. • And at the same time they had taken long leases of their rooms to be sure of keeping side by side; and whenever the light fsffea the little Painter, or his genius wouldn’t work, he got over it all by throwing his brushes into a corner and leaving them to do as they liked till he came back” fresh as a lark, from a visit next door. Not that he ever expeet-ed his visits returned, however, for thero was a perfect understanding that the Professor couldn’t be comfortable in a room where everything was thrown down just as it happened. Something was sure to be pointing at him, if it was onlv a brush-handle, and the Professor couldn’t bear to be pointed at by anything that held no relation to him; he liked to see everything squared to its position in life and staging there. “ I’ll be back m seven or nine minutes,” he called over his shoulder, one drizzly Saturday, as the familiar rattle at his door-knob overtook him just half way -down the stairs. The Professor never would say he was going round a comer, because a comer was properly the angle of a square; but round the corner he went and into the little thread-and-needle store close by. “ I want—ah, what do you call it? I really sos get,” he said, hesitatingly, ‘‘but something to mend a glove.” “ And what color is the glove ?” asked the pretty grisette, with sympathy shining m her eyes. The question was an unexpected stroke, and the Professoj roused himself to extraordinary effort of memory. “ I should say—purple,” he decided at last exultingly; and, just as his seventh minute was fairly up, he reappeared at tins top of the stairs and opened the door. “ Punctual,” said the little Painter, looking up frpm the easy-chair before the grate. “Of course,” said the Professor. ” Let a represent the distance I have to go, and x denote the number of miles to the hour, and you can bring the result to a simple 'fraction without the least difficulty, Pink.” “Pinxit" was always the Professor’s name for-him, but it slipped down into “Pink” now and then, when the Professor happened to be in extraordinary spirits, and he was particularly pleased with himself just now for his triumph *iab6ut the color of the glove. “ The day is so monstrous gray, a man can’t do anything with it,” said Pink, set;tjmg down into his easy-chair again. “Gray! State the proposition fairly, Pink l It’s a holiday, that’s what’s the nutter with it. There never was such a terrible country for holidays on the face of the earth.” “There are more of them coming, though; a solid eight days right ahead Of us,’.’,replied Pink, with glee. “A regular Aurora Borealis; a streak of rose-color thrown smack across the backbone of

tv growled the Professor; but he seated lmnself and began hum. minga tune as ho unrolled his parcel, f “What ors you trying te do now?” for the Professor had suddenly converted the thumb ahd finaersol his left hand into a set Of spindles, and was evoluting .. aioocoon of purple lewijjg-silk from them In most scientific style. “ Why, vou see. Pink," said the Professor, as the last coil came off his thumb and bdeftme a triumphantly complete cocoon, .1* I’ve worn these gloves about three or nvtfttmes, and the edges of this seam, which should represent two parallel lines, have been drawn from their points until they form an ellipse. Now, let the upper tip of the finger and the lower end of the riprepresent two fixed points, and let me . t3*r apiece of this thread shorter than Jitf. (distance, and I’ll reduce them to a gfvenjine again In a twinkling.” “But, my gracious man alivel” exclaimed Pink, springing from his chair •o.the Prtrfessor’s, with one leap, “itcan’t be done! v . Can't,, badono!” repeated the Professor triumphantly. “Just let this needleful^ of silk become a tangent line, “sag|?i<sVw” Interrupted Pink, “ the silk is the dery difficulty I DonH you sefe it isn’t the color? You might as wall put a green stripe on the aky, and be done with It!”

| ( •. . r \ * The Professor’s face fell. “ It Imn the color?" he echoed, unwillingly; and laying the cocoon and the ?lov« Aide by side, he gave a sudden stoop or a nearer look at the question. ?*I don’t see so very much difference,” be said, rising again ta give the artist rather a discomfited look. “ Don’t see it?” said Pink, fairly beside himself with excitement, “don’t Bee that that one ii a' purple, and the other a brown I Why, they’d explode if you put them together 1 Let them-alone, man, till another day, and let me find the right thing for you 1” “Can’t do it, Pinxit," said the Professor, regretfully. I shall want these gloves to wear m just seventeen hours from now.” “ Well, giye me the silk, and I’ll paint it for you. then!” cried Pink, in despera. tion. “Wait a minute, and I’ll fetch the color." The Professor sat with the threaded needle in his hand and a sense of downfall in Jus heart, meekly waiting for Pink to come back; bat he waited and waited, and no Pink appeared. A sitter had come in, the Professor was sure, from the souuds of voices through the wall, and he was equally sure, by the way things seemed to be knocking about in there, nad oome in a time that didn’t suit the artist’s mood at all. ; The Professor hesitated. “ What is the use of multiplying troubles?” he asked himself, in a confidential whisper; “the oolonrare both really very dark,” and, with a furtive glance toward’s Pinxit’s room, he “ fixed the extremity ” of his thread and went to work. The next morning the Professor put on the gloves and went softly out to church before the little Portrait Painter had shown himself. He felt a slight twinge, to be sure, as the gleam ffom his row of stitches reminded him diirly of a line of heathery graves he had once seen lying along a brown Scotch moor; but he had forgotten a|R abrtiit them before he reached the corner, and went on as comfortably as on the Sunday when the gloves were new. OnLy-, that, if the truth were told, Stflaay was rather a hard day, at the best, ; with the Professor. It is very well to go along through the six days of the weefc playing at what one culls life, and Amends to like best; but when all this is quietly tucked away for a rest on the seventh, if there is a vacuum or aching v&id, a sickness at heart from hope deferred, or, worse than all, a hope lying shrouded* and dead within, that is the time it sOeffts to take to rise and hold high carnival. Of course it is a day for consolations, tob; but, somehow, at every roll of the organ, or every cadence of voices that offered them, or whispered of happiness unseen, the Professor couldn’t help feeling afteeadful gasping after a certain happiness that was unseen, true enough, but that %e> devoutly wished to lay his eyes upoa. He went back to his room and sat down Without eveti taking off the gloves, and holding a shut hand before him, gazed fixedly at'itj as if it might unfold again, and drop out the answer to the very question that Was distracting him. Would someonh qVer come? Should he never see her attain ? Would she ever be his, indeed? TW

The scaltes went on balancing, the “ ever” going up with a leap of joy that fairly kicked the beam, and the “never” bringing its side heavily down again with dismal thump, when he heard Pink’s voice over hie shoulder, flying: “ I tell yotu, It never will be a match so long as the world stands! It never was ordained in Heaven, you may be sure of that.” » What happened next, Pink never exactly understood, but he found himself very suddenly in the opposite corner of the room, while the Professor stood over him with very fierce eyes, and then turned in a flash, and threw himself into a chair, doubling his arras on the table, and burying his face in them without a Word. Pink gazed, bewildered, but it did no food; he could only see the top of the ’rofessor’s head, and there was no explanation there. But an explanation must be had, and, creeping noiselessly forward on tiptoe, he gave the Professor a denting little touch on the shoulder, and then sprang quickly back to a safe distance. But still the Professor did not stir. Had the ground failed from under Pink’s feet? Was all their happy past a mistaken dream , or was all the future going to be one ? He crept up once more, and tried another touch, but still no change. Should he say “ three times and out?” He was lust making up his mind to it in despair, when the Professor sprang to his feet and stepped suddenly toward him.

“Pinxit, can you forgive met Possibly your thought and mine would not designate the same base; perhaps you only meant the glove after all!” “Of course I did! What else could I mean?” said Pink; and then it all had to come out; the Professor had to tell Pink the whole story. “But, niy gracious!” exclaimed Pink again, when he had listened breathlessly to the end. “Man alive, why don’t you find her ? There can’t be any difficulty about it!” The Professor gave his spectacles an expited push closer to his eyes and gazed wistfully at the little painter, in his turn. “ I’m afraid you don’t consider the difference between the known and unknown lines of your figure, Pinxit,” he said at last. “Bother the figure,” said Pink. “I consider this, at any rate: If you met an angel when you were studying in Paris, ana if you fell in love with her, as of course you must, and if she returned it, as it isn’t strange she should, and if her fierce relations wouldn’t hear a word of it, and have intercepted all communication ever since; and if you have reason to think she is here in this very city to-day, and has been keeping her heart as warm as the blush of a rose for you all this time, I’d find her, if I were you—that’s all I have to say about it!” The Professor started up and began walking the floor with strides like a pair of compasses. “Pinxit,”he exclaimed, at last, stopping suddenly before him, “I’m afraid you’ve proved all your points, except the point of contact." “ Well, that’s the verypoint to setanout proving, then, and the sooner the better. Haven’t you any clue ? There must he something; what T s the color of her half?” The Professor hesitated. “ I don’t know,” he said at last with a rueful look. “ “Don’t know the color of her hair!” cried Pink, springing out of his chair with excitement again: “Well, her eyes, then!”’ ' The Professor shook his head slowly. “ Not even the color of her eyes ? Good heavens! Nor even her complexion ? Not even if she is blonde or olive!” “ No—l think—no—l’m not really sure, hint what great difference does it really make?” but Pink was far more beside

himself by this time than ha had been about the glove. “Well, her blood, than I Ton surely must know something about that; yon most know what her blood is!’ “BlueI” exclaimed the Professor with sudden posltiveness, and venturing to look Pink in the face onee more. “ The bluest of the blue!” “Ah,” said Pink, drawing a breath. "Well, that’s something at least, to go upon; that’s a straw to catch at, but we want something more. There must be some little thing that she gave you once, —of course there is—some trifle that you’ve treasured; we might do something with it.” The 'Professor hesitated. This was coming pretty close; but still, there was a ring in Pinkos voice that seemed like a pilot hailing him in a storm. Ho opened a secret drawer in his desk, took out a box, and reverently, as if he were Uncovering the face of the dead, raised the lid and placed it where Pinxit could see. A little handful of sweet-poas lay inside, withered and shriveled, their colors faded into nameless tints, and their stems tied with a narrow ribbon of odd coloring and design. Pink looked very hard into the box again for a few moments, and tpon started on across the room in great excitemept. “ I have it!” he exclaimed; “I have it, as clear as crystal! She gave them to you, of course; let me copy them, exactly as they were— I won’t miss a shade; and the ribbon, too—that’s a clue that would lead through any labyrinth. And, then, they’ve been begging me for a bit for the window at Dupil’s, but I thought I couldn't stop to do it. I’ll just put this quietly there, and we’ll see what we shall see.” But the Professor couldn’t see anything yet, and Pink went on: " Don’t you know, man alive, that the holidays are coming, and that everybody whose blood is bine is sure to walk down the right side of the street, at the right time of day, and to stop and look in at Dupil’s window as they pass ? And if I were to happen to be inßide, and were to see a cheek like a rose, or an eve like a forget-me-not, suddenly recognizing my sweet-peas from auld-lang-syne, soul to soul, you know, why then I'should know precisely what to dq next —that is all!” It was a pretty sharp pull to let the box go off into Pink’s room; but it went, and the soul of a new creation began to. take form and color on his easel, early the next day. “I suppose," Pink had said rather quietly, as he went out of the door with the box—“ I suppose there is a bare possibility that you do remember her name ?” “ Celeste, ” answered the Professor, with his lips drawn pretty tight. That was certainly the last thing,—there could not be any more questions to ask. Pink was no novice, no dabbler with his paints. He was a Fellow of the Academy, and continually besieged to contribute something with liis special shine upon it to thi§ or that display; although just at present, ignominious as it seemed, he was giving up what he could and would do, for what he must. But it was worth while to see him when he got fairly warmed up at a piece of work that, really did go to his heart, and particularly at this, that seemed to have taken possession of it with a swoop. Such sudden pacing backward for a more distant look, and such sudden darting up again for a new touch; such tumbling of things together until they all pointed the wrong way at once; and such mysterious out blooming from the canvas as the work went on. He made no pretense to being a poet, of: course, though he was forever humming snatches of songs at his work; but this time he felt greatly tempted to try, for nothing that he knew seemed to come quite up to the occasion. He went over everything in the least appropriate, until at last, one day, when a special sense of things came over him, he even caught himself trilling in his most tremendous bass — “ Lacy bug I Lady bog! Fly to your hontel” “ You wretch, Pink!” he exclaimed the next moment; but somehow after thit he never could seem to rest until he had rigged these verses of his own:

** Wandering far, or wandering near, Strayeth a maiden whom yre hold deart Mistily mantled in hope and fear. And never a footprint leaving]” “ O. wandering, vanishing, maiden fair, Float me a tress of your golden hair! I’m weaving a net of blossoms rare, Oh, —.” Pink never could get that last line fixed to suit him, so he left it, like some of his Eictures, till he could; and meanwhile e found he could roll out unutterable things on that "Oh!" although once in a while the recollection that, for aught the Professor knew, her hair might be black as Erebus after all, broke him down in a merry shout in the midst of it. But he knew, if the Professor didn’t, that the hair was golden; he hugged tight to that conviction, and worked away at song and picture together. Did ever a handful of withered flowers know such a resurrection before ? They lay in their box like a forsaken chrysalis, while their new life fluttered out under Pink’s brush with a hundred transparent, gleaming wings, and it was bard to believe that the same old perfhme was not under them as fresh as ever, still. The Professor put his nose down with an involuntary little sniff, when Pink called him to look at them, and then started back feeling very foolish, and hoping he had not been seen. And now came the tug of war. Pinxit was a privileged character at Dupil’s. and if he chose to place his picture in the window, and then take his station inside and hover about near enough to keep an eye on it, no one made any remarks, and he went quietly on in his own way. But masterly inactivity was the hardest possible fighting f»r him ; and as for the Professor, he went mousing about, peeping into Pinxit’s room, or trying in vain to settle down to some problem in the books, While the only problem that seemed of importance any longer was depending entirely on what the little portrait painter should manage to do with it. Fortunately, fashionable hoars were short, and Pinxit was never away very long at a time; but when he did come home and got settled into the eaay-chair again, he did not seem to have much to gay, and the Professor watched him in a greater fever of excitement every night. “I’m afraid, Pinxit,”he saidsuddenly, stopping in a monstrous set of compass strides, “I’m afraid you’ve got some imaginary roots in yonr equation, and If you have we shall certainly come to grief!” But Pink seemed to have no more to reply to this than to anything else, and it was clearly of no use. Meantime the holidays jogged gayly along, like the fiddle-bows of musicians in a meny interlude while the curtain watte to rise. Christmas ohimes were forgotten, and every one was waiting for the New Tear’s bells to ring. “ Don’t get into Such a red-hot fidget about it, though,” said the little artist to himself; but Tt was hard to help it, for whatever might be readv to tangle in his

net after tL eweek were onct P“ l < he certainly com ’ d ™ hid on auylomter-.it the other banc. •“ be could trainee the Prefeasofs New ’■ up in such colors “ j*® j*®? to mix for It! Ho h w d ln bright picture of t '“ t ’ ciently positive outlin, mqst confess it was b*. trifle dim—fading a little Not that he had really T out of the host of passers L ip £.“? j? tnare; there waa scarcely one given It a looker a restore, times he could even tell what« saying about if through the tide. &TV But not ohe laid a'hand on the door . ~~ if. ir could be bought, that beyrasn’v p sr pared for him; he had measured him

actly through the window, and made i " his mind, “ The picture waa promisee, elsewhere; he waa very sorrv,” and the regret was quite Bincere, for his bright picture faded a little as each one turned away. “Your foreground is getting pretty well foreshortened, Pinxit; it can't be denied,” he said to himself, when only two more days remained, but what then? If he remembered rightly, Eve had not made the shadow of an appearance when “ the evening and the morning were the filth day.” So he plucked up a flesh relay of spirits and carried the evening bravely through, fairly getting the Professor started on general problems long before it was over.

Eve did not seem quite so certain a precedent for Celeste, when morning came, but Pink had never beaten a retreat in his life, and he marched pluckily to his post once more. But he sat there feeling a little mopish after all, for broad daylight is apt to snow realities, and, as if it were not enough to be disappointed, a suspicion that he had been making a fool of himself began to creep disagrees bly in. “ Well, if your colors won’t take, after you’ve done your best,” he began, as the day wore on, and he was almost tempted to sleep on guard a few moments, when suddenly he felt a thrill! His eyes flew to their duty again, and there—oh, his prophetic soul!—a tress of golden hair was fluttering straight toward him, against tile window-pane! Pinxit had talked about a cheek like g rose, but nojrose ever turned from white to red, and back to white again, as this one did before his little handful Of sweet peas; and as for the eyes, he could not even guess at those, so steadily spellbound they seemed to the low comer where his picture stood, while a slender, fur-wrapped figure stood outlined, motionless, against the glass. Moments passed, and there was not a stir in the situation. Pinxit and his changeable rose both stood riveted; he was sure her breath came rapidly against the icy pane, and he held his own until he was near losing it—for was not. everything trembling fa this one minute’s scale.

She turned from the window at last, and Pinxit had his hand on his hat, bat no, the door opened, she was coming in i “The little flower-picture in the window,” she asked, “te it that it is for sale?” ......... s Pink would have waited a moment for the pure delight of seeing the daintilygloved hand press upon the counter as if for help, but that would never do. “ The artist did not give distinct instructions, madam. It is to be removed to his studio to-night, however, and can he seen there with others, I believe.” “It is very odd—the ribbon,” she said, hesitating, and drawing her veil more closely, as the white rose turned to red again. “An old thing, I suppose; some relic, no doubt,” replied Pinxit, carelessly. She hesitated Again, half withdrew her hand from the counter, and then steadied herself once more. “They are very beautiful—the peas," She said at last, trying to press back the lock that would float toward Pink. “ Madam,- they are Celestial !" answered Pink. That was a piece de resistance , his proof shot, and R-had done its work; he was positive of it the moment he saw the start, and the trembling of the white wrist on the counter, with which it was received; and then he had to stand an answering shot from under the veil, that would have pierced some people, soul and marrow; but he met it as innocently as if he had never dreamed of anything but burnt sienna in his life. “To-morrow, precisely at noon, you will find the artist’s studio open; 1 think you might obtain the picture then.” “ I shall come.” she said, and in another moment Pinxit only saw the place where she had been standing, and there was nothing more to do but wrap up his picture in a piece of brown paper and carry it home under his arm; no one was to stare at it any more—that was one mercy, at least. _

That evening was the worst of all to be sot over. If the Professor were to have eaven open before him the next day, it had better come with one burst, Pinx|t thought, but the difficult question was, hdw to contain himself in the meantime. And when morning came, the battle was all to be fought over again. Pour mortal hours to be devoured, or to devour him, before precise noon could arrive. "Nine, ten, eleven, by the great bell clpse by. A quarter of twelve at last! The moment Pink heard that, he dashed off to the Professor’s door. “Come in, can’t you?” he said, “1 want you to help me to prove an equation.” “ In three or five minutes,” answered the Professor, with his eyes closed to ■ a heal> of figures, and he went back at a white heat, but knowing very well the Professor would be true to the aeqond. And 1 so he was, only casting one quiet sidewiheglance at Pink as he same in; he had not been down town that morning —what did H mean ? “Wait a jiff,” said Pink, very busy with Ids paints, and the Professor waited meekly, but at that instant a light step was heard coming near and pausing just outside. Pink threw his brush against the wall, where it left a little slur of rosecolor to this day, and opened the door, slipping a little behind it as H swung in, so that his visitor and the Professor encountered face to face. One look was enough for the little painter, and he vanished through the Btillopen door. Whatever became of that next half hour, while he paced sentinel in the corridor outside, Pinxit would have found it hard to tell; It seemed an eternity, and still, if eternity should prove a steady flow of such delighted state, what could he ever ask for more? But he kept an ear open for time, through it all, and listened for half-past twelve to strike. Re most break the sacred solitnde then, for a sitter was dne ip another five minutes, and it would never do. So with a premonitory rattle of the door-knob, he went back; it was all Over—that whs plain enough to he seen. To-morrow!” the Professor was say-

lagin ecstatic tones. “If wiriTWlß' Year’s Dty I” ~ ...; “ Preposterous!” exclaimed Pink, before he realized wbat he wm about. ' The ProfaMor started, and a little laugh •lipped from Celeste. “Ta seven or nine days, then,” urged the Professor, only half discomfited, aid this time victory promised to be his. It was dark as Egypt, of course, when the New Year’s strokes on the old bell roused the Utttie Portrait Painter the next day, but four distinct objects rose instantly before his eyes; the chrysalis boa, the celestial peas, the Professor and Celeste, and he knew that “ The stun of their square was equal to unity. ’.'—lsabella T. Hopkins, in Scribner for March.