It happened one day that the artist obtained the favour of a marchioness of forty-six by introducing into her portrait the nose, eyes, and mouth of that fair young maiden of seventeen. The great lady recommended him to the Russian Ambassador as the greatest of English painters; and the ambassador immediately retained him to proceed to St. Petersburgh to transfer to canvass the physiognomy of the Czar.
Ellen thus lost her employment once more; and again did she repair to the den of the old hag who had recommended her to the statuary and the artist.
The step of the maiden was less timid than formerly; and her look was more confident. She was also dressed in a style which savoured of coquetry, for her occupation at the artist’s had taught her the value of her charms, and prompted her how to enhance them. She had imbibed the idea that her beauty was worth much, and should at least produce her a comfortable livelihood, even if it did not lay the foundation for a fortune. She therefore occupied all her leisure time in studying how to set it off to the greatest advantage. Thus dire necessity had compelled that charming young creature to embrace occupations which awoke all the latent female vanity that had slumbered in her bosom throughout the period of her pinching poverty, and that now shone forth in her manner—her gait—her glance—her speech—and her attire.
The old hag observed this change, and was not surprised—for she was a woman of the world; but she muttered to herself, “A little while, my dear—and you will suit my purposes altogether.”
“I am come again, you see,” said Ellen, seating herself without waiting to be asked. “My artist has left England suddenly, and I am once more without occupation.”
“Have you any money?” demanded the old hag.
“I have three sovereigns left,” replied Ellen.
“You must give me two,” said the woman; “and you must promise me half your first week’s earnings, for the new introduction which I shall presently give you.”
Ellen placed two sovereigns in the hand of the beldame; and the old wretch opened her table drawer to search for something which she required.
That drawer contained a strange incongruity of articles. Old valentine letters, knots of faded riband, cards, prophetic almanacs; tooth powder boxes, and scented oil bottles, all alike empty; the visiting cards of several noblemen and gentlemen, play-bills, theatrical journals, masquerade tickets never used, pieces of music, magazines of fashion, a volume of the “Memoirs of Harriett Wilson,” immoral prints, a song book, some leaves torn from the “Newgate Calendar,” medical drugs wrapped up in papers, a child’s caul, pieces of poetry in manuscript, amatory epistles on sheets of various tints, writs from the Court of Requests, summonses from police courts, &c. &c. The contents of that filthy drawer furnished a complete history of that old hag’s former life.
The object of the old woman’s search was a card, which, having found it, she handed to the young maiden, saying, “Here is the address of an eminent sculptor: he requires a model of a bust for the statue of a great lady who may be said to have no bust at all. You will suit him.”
Ellen received the card, and hastened to Halkin Street, Belgrave Square, where the sculptor resided. She was shown first into a parlour upon the ground floor, then, when the object of her visit was made known, she was requested to walk up stairs to the studio of the great man. She found him contemplating with profound satisfaction a head which he had already cut from the top part of a block of marble. He was an old man of sixty, and he stooped in his gait; but his eyes were dark and piercing.
A bargain between the sculptor and Ellen was soon terminated; and the next morning she entered upon her new employment. Stripped to the waist, she had to stand in a certain position, for several hours each day, in the presence of the sculptor. The old man laboured diligently at his statue, and allowed her little rest; but he paid her munificently, and she was contented.
The lady, whose statue was thus supposed to be in progress, called daily, and remained at the sculptor’s house for hours. She always came alone, and sate in the studio the whole time during which her call lasted: it was therefore imagined by all her friends that she really formed the model of the statue which was to bear her name. But Ellen’s neck—and Ellen’s shoulders—and Ellen’s bosom—and Ellen’s arms were in truth the pattern of the bust of that statue which was to be a great sculptor’s masterpiece, and to hand down the name of a great lady to posterity!
The very day upon which Ellen was to leave the sculptor’s employment, her services as a model being no longer required, this great lady happened to observe that she was in want of a nursery governess for her two young daughters. Ellen ventured to offer herself as a candidate for the situation. The lady raised her eyes and hands to heaven in astonishment, exclaiming, “You, miss, a companion for my children! a girl who gets her livelihood by standing half naked in the presence of any body, as a model!” And the lady was compelled to have recourse to her scent-bottle to save herself from fainting. She forgot that she would have herself stood to the sculptor if she had possessed a good bust!
The answer and the behaviour of this lady opened the eyes of Ellen to the nature of the opinion which the world must now form of her. She suddenly comprehended the real position which she occupied in society—about one remove above the unfortunate girls who were the avowed daughters of crime. Were she now to speak to the world of her virtue, that world would laugh insultingly in her face. Thus the dire necessity which had urged her upon this career, began by destroying her sense of female delicacy and shame: it now destroyed, in her estimation, every inducement to pursue a virtuous career.
Again she sought the dwelling of the old hag: for the fourth time she demanded the assistance of the beldame.
“It seems, my child,” said the old woman, “that my advice has produced beneficial consequences. Each time that you cross my threshold I observe that you are freer and lighter in step, and more choice in your apparel.”
“You know that I am not detestably ugly, mother,” answered Ellen, with a smile of complacence; “and surely it is as cheap to have a gown well made as badly made, and a becoming bonnet as one altogether out of date.”
“Ah! I see that you study the fashions,” exclaimed the old woman with a sigh—for she recalled to mind the pleasures and pursuits of her own youthful days, over which she retrospected with regret:—then, after a pause, she said, “How old are you?”
“Eighteen and a half,” replied Ellen.
“And, with all that beauty, is your heart still unoccupied by the image of some favoured suitor?”
“Oh!” ejaculated Ellen, laughing heartily, so as to display her brilliant teeth, “I have not thought of that yet. I have lately read a great deal about love in novels and romances—for I never do any needlework now,—but I have not experienced the passion. I dare say my time will come sooner or later;”—and again she laughed. “But, hasten, mother—I am losing my time: tell me, do you know of farther employment for me?”
“I am acquainted with a French gentleman of science at the West End,” answered the hag, “who has invented a means of taking likenesses by the aid of the sun. I do not know what the process is: all that concerns me and you is that the Frenchman requires a beautiful woman to serve as a pattern for his experiments.”
“Give me his address,” said Ellen, “and if he engages me I will pay you liberally. You know that you can rely upon me.”
The old woman once more had recourse to her filthy drawer, in which her present memoranda were mingled with the relics of the luxury of former days; and taking thence a letter which she had only received that same morning, she tore off the address for the use of the young maiden.
Ellen, who a few months previously had been accustomed to work for seventeen or eighteen hours without ceasing, now took a cab to proceed from the neighbourhood of St. Luke’s to Leicester Square. The French scientific experi
mentalist was at home; and Ellen was conducted up four flights of stairs to a species of belvidere, or glass cabinet, built upon the roof of the house. The windows of this belvidere, and the paper with which the wood-work of the interior was covered, were of a dark blue, in order to mitigate the strength of the sun’s rays.
Within this belvidere the Frenchman was at work. He was a short, middle-aged, sallow-faced, sharp featured person—entirely devoted to matters of science, and having no soul for love, pleasure, politics, or any kind of excitement save his learned pursuits. He was now busily employed at a table covered with copper plates coated with silver, phials of nitric acid, cotton wool, pounce, a camera obscura, several boxes, each of about two feet square, and other materials necessary for photography.
The Frenchman spoke English tolerably well; and eyeing his fair visitant from head to foot, he expressed himself infinitely obliged to the person who had sent her. He then entered into particulars; and Ellen found, to her surprise, that the photographer was desirous of taking full-length female portraits in a state of nudity. She drew her veil over her countenance, and was about to retire in disgust and indignation, when the Frenchman, who was examining a plate as he spoke, and therefore did not observe the effect his words had produced upon her, mentioned the price which he proposed to pay her. Now the artist paid better than the statuary; the sculptor better than the artist; and the photographer better than the sculptor. She therefore hesitated no longer; but entered the service of the man of science.
We shall not proceed to any details connected with this new avocation to which that lovely maiden lent herself. Suffice it to say, that having sold her countenance to the statuary, her likeness to the artist, and her bust to the sculptor, she disposed of her whole body to the photographer. Thus her head embellished images white and bronzed; her features and her figure were perpetuated in divers paintings; her bust was immortalized in a splendid statue; and her entire form is preserved, in all attitudes, and on many plates, in the private cabinet of a photographer at one of the metropolitan Galleries of Practical Science.
At length the photographer was satisfied with the results of his experiments regarding the action of light upon every part of the human frame, and Ellen’s occupation was again gone.
A tainted soul now resided in a pure body. Every remaining sentiment of decency and delicacy was crushed—obliterated—destroyed by this last service. Pure souls have frequently resided in tainted bodies: witness Lucretia after the outrage perpetrated upon her:—but here was essentially a foul soul in a chaste and virgin form.
And what dread cause had consummated this sad result? Not the will of the poor girl—for when we first saw her in her cold and cheerless chamber, her mind was spotless as the Alpine snow. But dire necessity—that necessity which became an instrument in the old hag’s hands to model the young maiden to her purposes. For it was with ulterior views that the designing harridan had introduced the poor girl to that career which, without being actually criminal, led step by step towards criminality. The wretch knew the world well, and was enabled to calculate the influence of exterior circumstances upon the mind and the passions. After the first conversation which she had with Ellen, she perceived that the purity of the virgin was not to be undermined by specious representations, nor by dazzling theories, nor by delusive sophistry: and the hag accordingly placed the confiding girl upon a path which, while it supplied her with the necessaries of life, gradually presented to her mind scenes which were calculated to destroy her purity of thought and chastity of feeling for ever!
When Ellen left the service of the photographer, she repaired for the fifth time to the dwelling of the hag.
The old woman was seated as usual at her work; and she was humming to herself an opera air, which she remembered to have heard many—many years back.
“The Frenchman requires my services no longer,” said Ellen. “What next can you do for me?”
“Alas! my poor child,” answered the old woman, “the times were never so bad as they are at present! What is to become of us? what is to become of us?”
And the hag rocked herself backwards and forwards in her chair, as if overcome by painful reflections.
“You can, then, do nothing for me?” observed Ellen, interrogatively. “That is a pity! for I have not a shilling left in the world. We have lived up to the income which my occupations produced. My poor old father fancies up to the present moment that I have been working at dress-making and embroidery at the houses of great families and he will wonder how all my engagements should so suddenly cease. Think, mother: are you not acquainted with another artist or sculptor?”
“Why, my child, do you pitch upon the artist and the sculptor?” inquired the hag, regarding Ellen fixedly in the face.
“Oh!” answered the young maiden, lightly, “because I do not like to have my countenance handled about by the dirty fingers of the statuary; and you cannot suppose that out of the four services I should voluntarily prefer that of the photographer?”
The old woman looked disappointed, and muttered to herself, “Not quite yet! not quite yet!”
“What did you say, mother?” inquired Ellen.
“I say,” replied the hag, assuming a tone of kindness and conciliation, “that you must come back to me in ten days; and in the meantime I will see what is to be done for you.”
“In ten days,” observed Ellen: “be it so!”
And she took her departure, downcast and disappointed, from the old hag’s abode.
CHAPTER LVII.
THE LAST RESOURCE.
POVERTY once again returned—with all its hideous escort of miseries—to the abode of Monroe and his daughter. The articles of comfort which they had lately collected around them were sent to the pawnbroker: necessaries then followed to the same destination.
Ellen no longer sought for needle-work: she had for some time past led a life which incapacitated her for close application to monotonous toil; and she confidently reposed upon the hope that the old woman would procure her more employment with an artist or a sculptor.
But at the expiration of the ten days, the hag put her off for ten days more; and then again for another ten days. Thus a month passed away in idleness for both father and daughter, neither of whom earned a shilling.
They could no longer retain the lodgings which they had occupied for some time in a respectable neighbourhood; and now behold them returning to the very same cold, miserable, and cheerless rooms which we saw them occupying in the first instance in the court leading out of Golden Lane!
What ups and downs constitute existence!
Two years had now passed away since we first introduced the reader to that destitute lodging in Golden Lane. We have therefore brought up this portion of our narrative, as well as all the other parts of it, to the close of the year 1838.
Misery, more grinding, more pinching, and more acute than any which they had yet known, now surrounded the father and daughter. They had parted with every thing which would produce the wherewith to purchase food. They lay upon straw at night; and for days and days they had not a spark of fire in the grate. They often went six-and-thirty hours together without tasting a morsel of food. They could not even pay the pittance of rent which was claimed for their two chambers: and if it had not been for their compassionate neighbours they must have starved altogether.
Monroe could obtain no employment in the City. When he had failed, during the time of Richard Markham’s imprisonment, he lost all his friends, because they took no account of his misfortunes, and looked only to the fact that he had been compelled to give up business. Had he passed through the Bankruptcy Court, and then opened his counting-house again to commence affairs upon credit, he would have found admirers and supporters. But as he had paid his creditors every farthing, left himself a beggar, and spurned the idea of entering upon business without capit
al of his own, he had not a friend to whom he could apply for a shilling.
At length the day came when the misery of the father and the daughter arrived at an extreme when it became no longer tolerable. They had fasted for forty-eight hours; and their landlady threatened to turn them out of their empty rooms into the street, unless they paid her the arrears of rent which they owed. They had not an article upon which they could raise the price of a loaf:—it was the depth of a cold and severe winter, and Ellen had already parted with all her undergarments.
“My dear child,” said the heart-broken father, embracing his daughter affectionately, on the morning when their misery thus reached its utmost limit, “I have one resource left—a resource to which I should never fly save in an extreme like this!”
“What mean you?” inquired the daughter, anxiously glancing in the pale and haggard countenance of her sire.
“I mean that I will apply to Richard Markham,” said the old man. “He does not suspect our appalling state of destitution, or he would seek us out—he would fly to our succour.”
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 59