Clara Vaughan, Volume 1 (of 3)
Page 31
CHAPTER XIII.
There was a school of design not very far from my lodgings, and thitherI went the next morning. My landlady offered to come with me and see mesafe in the room; and of course her Charley, who seemed to knoweverybody, knew some one even there, to whom she kindly promised torecommend me. So I gladly accepted her offer.
In some respects, Mr. Shelfer was more remarkable than even his wife.He was so shy, that on the rare occasions when we met, I never could gethim to look at me, except once when he was drunk; yet by some mysteriousprocess he seemed to know everything about me--the colour of my eyes,the arrangement of my hair, the dresses I put on, the spirits I wasin--a great deal more, in fact, than I ever cared to know. So thatsometimes my self-knowledge was largely increased, through hisobservations repeated by his wife. But I was not allowed to flattermyself that this resulted from any especial interest; for he seemed topossess an equal acquaintance with the affairs of all his neighbours.Mention any one anywhere around, and he, without seeming to mean it,would describe him or her unmistakably in half a dozen words. He neverpraised or blamed, he simply identified. He must have seen more with ablink of his eye, than most people see in five minutes of gazing. Heseldom brought any one home with him, though he often promised to do so;he never seemed to indulge in gossip, at any rate not with his wife."Cut it short, old 'ooman," was all the encouragement he ever gave herin that way. When he was at home--a thing of rare occurrence--he satwith his head down and a long pipe in his mouth; he walked in the streetwith his head down, and never accosted any one. Where did he get allhis knowledge? I doubt if there were a public-house in London, but whatShelfer knew at the furthest a cousin of the landlord, and a brother ofone of the potboys. "Charley Shelfer" everybody called him, andeverybody spoke of him, not with distinguished respect, but with akindly feeling. His luck was proverbial; he had a room full of thingswhich he had won at raffles, and he was in constant requisition to throwfor less fortunate people. As for his occupation--he called himself anurseryman, but he had no nursery that I could discover. He received apound a week for looking after the garden in the great square; but whenany one came for him, he was never to be found there. I think he spentmost of his time in jobbing about, and "swopping" (as Mrs. Shelfercalled it) among his brother gardeners. Sometimes, he brought homebeautiful plants, perfectly lovely flowers, unknown to me even by name,and many of these he presented to me by Mrs. Shelfer's hands. EverySunday morning he was up before the daylight, and away for an excursion,or rather an incursion, through the Hampstead, Highgate, and Hollowaydistrict. From these raids he used to return as I came home from themorning service. By the way, if I had wanted to puzzle him and find ablank in his universal acquaintance, the best chance would have been toask him about the clergyman. He never gave the pew-openers any trouble,neither indeed did Mrs. Shelfer, who called herself a Catholic; but thelively little woman's chiefest terror was death, and a parson to her wasalways an undertaker. If Mr. Shelfer had not spent the Sunday morningquite so well as I had, at any rate he had not wasted his time. I thinkhe must have robbed hen-roosts and allotment grounds; and yet he was toorespectable for that. But whence and how could he ever have come by thegipsey collection he always produced from his hat, from his countlesspockets, from his red cotton handkerchief, every Sunday at 1 P.M.?Eggs, chickens, mushrooms, sticks of horseradish and celery,misletoe-thrushes, cucumbers, cabbages red and white, rabbits,watercress, Aylesbury ducks--I cannot remember one quarter of hismanifold forage. All I can say is, that if these things are to be foundby the side of the road near London, Middlesex is a far better field forthe student of natural history than Gloucestershire, or even belovedDevon. Mrs. Shelfer said it was all his luck; but I hardly think itcould have rained Aylesbury ducks, even for Mr. Shelfer.
All the time he was extracting from his recesses this multifariousstore, he never once smiled, or showed any symptoms of triumph, butgravely went through the whole, as if a simple duty.
How was it such a man had not made his fortune? Because he had anincurable habit of "backing bills" for any one who asked him; and hencehe was always in trouble.
Mrs. Shelfer and I were admitted readily into the school of design. Itwas a long low room, very badly lighted, and fitted up for the timeuntil a better could be provided. It looked very cold and comfortless;forms instead of chairs, and desks like a parish school. The whitewashedwalls were hung with diagrams, sections, tracings, reductions, most ofthem stiff and ugly, but no doubt instructive. At one end was a raisedplatform, reserved for lecturers and the higher powers. Shelves roundthe wall were filled with casts and models, and books of instructionwere to be had out of cupboards. Of course we were expected to bringour own materials, and a code of rules was exhibited. The more advancedstudents were permitted to tender any work of their own which might beof service to the neophytes. From no one there did I ever receive anyinsolence. At first, the young artists used to look at me rather hard,but my reserved and distant air was quite enough to discourage them.
After the introduction, which Mrs. Shelfer accomplished in very greatstyle, I dismissed her, and set to in earnest to pore once more over therudiments of perspective. One simple truth as to the vanishing pointstruck me at once. I was amazed that I had never perceived it before.It was not set forth in the book I was studying; but it was the sole keyto all my errors of distance. At once I closed the book; upon that onesubject I wanted no more instruction, I had caught the focus of truth.Books, like bad glass, would only refract my perception. All I wantednow was practice and adaptation of the eye.
Strange as it seemed to me then, I could draw no more that day. I wasso overcome at first sight by the simple beauty of truth, mathematicalyet poetical truth, that error and obscurity (for there is a balance inall things) had their revenge for a while on my brain. But the truth,once seen, could never be lost again. Thenceforth there were few higherpenances for me, in a small way, than to look at one of my earlydrawings.
When my brain was clear, I returned to do a real day's work. For thecups, and vases, and plates, and things of "aesthetic art" (as theychose to call it), I did not care at all; but the copies and models andfigures were most useful to me. Unless I am much mistaken, I made moreadvance in a fortnight there, than I had in any year of my life before.
With my usual perseverance--if I have no other virtue, I have that--Iworked away to correct my many shortcomings; not even indulging (much asI wanted the money) in any attempts at a finished drawing, until I feltsure that all my foundations were thoroughly laid and set. "And now," Icried towards Christmas, "now for Mr. Oxgall; if I don't astonish himthis time, my name is not Clara Vaughan!" It did me good when I wasalone, to call myself by my own name, and my right to be my father'sdaughter.