The Cost and Worth of Fame.
By Josephine Pollard
For three years I had been a daguerrean artist in the village of N., and during that time I had been as happy as a man can be whose desires are moderate, and whose wheels of life run smoothly. I had a pleasant home, and a mother and sister whose loving care would have made a desert habitable. Besides this, my reputation had gone abroad, and every family in the place and for miles around could boast of a collection of likenesses, of all sorts and sizes, of which I had no reason to be ashamed. This sort of agency, however, began to be distasteful to me; the sun was the true artist in that line of business, and I could take but little credit to myself. Genius began to assert herself, and try her wings preparatory to a higher flight. I felt there was that within me to which I must give voice and expression. My portfolio was filled with sketches which had elicited praise from strangers as well as friends. I had never attempted much in oil-coloring, although my taste lay in that line, and want of leisure had been the chief impediment. It was a lazy day in August, and the long afternoon had brought me no customers but flies, and the sun had no power to transfix them for any length of time. It was more tolerable in than out of doors, so making myself as comfortable as possible, and having nothing better to do, I fell to dreaming. Raphael, Guido, Titian, and those of ancient and modern days, whose works had been my admiration, wrapped in tinted shrouds, glided before me, and seemed to beckon me to join the throng. I yielded to a feeling of lassitude, and was borne through halls whose very walls and pavements seemed instinct with life. The sun shone warmly through variegated frames and scattered hues as bright and gay as plumes from Eden birds. The place was odorous with spicy breezes; and through an opening in the roof I had glimpses of a sky whose depths of blue made all else pale by contrast. Far up toward the dome, my glance, directed by a winged being, fell upon a vacant niche, and as I looked, a hand was writing my name in golden letters bound with crimson. Riveted to the spot, I could not take my gaze from the astounding revelation, for so I fancied it to be. Presently a ladder descended at my feet, and eagerly I prepared to mount it. Every round was studded with sharp nails that penetrated my flesh, causing the blood to flow; yet still I experienced no pain. I had ascended a considerable hight, when turning to look at the niches whose occupants I had outdistanced, gratified pride made me giddy. The strain of my feet weakened the round of the ladder, and I was precipitated to the pavement. The shock, and a sudden rush of cold air roused me completely, and I awoke to find Mattie standing over me in the very act of administering a good shaking. "Supper's ready, and we've been waiting for you this hour." It was my sister's voice, surely. The camera stared at me like a Gorgon on stilts, and my beautiful vision faded out, and left me with ambition still unsatisfied, in a room of very small dimensions, and no prospects ahead. It was easy to say "wait, wait," but it was a difficult thing to restrain my youthful ardor, and with no definite arrangements made, no plan on which to work, I was determined to do something, and that quickly. I thought this over while I was preparing to accompany Mattie home, and on my way there, and during the remainder of the evening, I was working out my problem. After a night of wakeful restlessness, tormented with a desire to see over the wall that hedged me in so completely, daylight dawned on the natural world, and threw a ray across my obstructed vision. Eureka! Ambition pointed to Rome. That was the way up the ladder; there the germ would develop into the perfect flower. I felt invisible cords drawing me thither. I saw pale hands beckoning me to the haunts of Genius. My mind was made up, and in order to carry out my design, it was necessary to begin practicing the most rigid economy. There were difficulties in the way, but I was determined to surmount them all. Mother and Mattie agreed to help me in every way, and to show their willingness, even went so far as to take in plain sewing, so that there should be as little demand as possible on my purse. I think it must have been out of sheer goodwill that the villagers took duplicates of their likenesses, and even commissioned me to daguerreotype the scenery of the place. Photographs were as yet unknown. I think they would have brought their horses and cattle to my room, if it had been at all practicable. As it was, I succeeded admirably, and my spirits rose accordingly, as mother's and Mattie's became depressed. The pictures I drew for them to admire failed to produce the desired effect, for ever in the foreground was the dear son and brother, who was so willing and so anxious to leave them. They had not the heart to repress my inclinations, or to lay a stumbling-block in the way of my advancement in life. Ambition was all to me and I was all to them. Months of ceaseless activity passed, and I was ready to take my departure; and men, women, and children came to take me by the hand and bid me "good speed." They were proud of me then, they should be more proud of me when I returned; and amid tears and blessings, with a hope in my heart that would not be discouraged, I started fame-ward. Need I describe my sensation on arriving at the Mecca of my pilgrimage? It would be impossible. Such a variety of emotions assailed me I was hardly conscious of my own identity. I walked in dreams. Everything possessed some attraction for me, even the "lazzaroni," who besieged my window nightly, and drove sleep from my pillow, seemed necessary adjuncts to the perfection of the whole. I was an enthusiast. My deity was art, and at her shrine I worshiped with all the ardor of a young devotee. But there were necessities that required something solid to work upon; whose demands were not to be denied, and they operated against my indulging in the "dolce far niente," of languor-loving Italy. So to work I went with a will; and realized by the sale of my cabinet pictures, a sum sufficient to meet the wants of the present. My designs were bold in style, original in conception, and connoisseurs and brother-artists gave me much encouragement. At first I was urged me to still greater efforts. At first there was a tugging at my heart-strings, and irregular, but oft-recurring intervals, the spirit voices of mother, sister, home, were near me, and haunted me with their almost irresistible pleadings. Ruthlessly casting aside these chains that bound me, I took to lotus-eating, and became a selfish pilgrim, with the staff, Art, in my hand, and the goal, Fame, in the distance. At last the inspiration came that was to lead me up the golden ladder, and already my dream seemed more than half realized. It absorbed me completely, I took no interest in any thing outside of my studio, no thought or feeling beyond my canvas. Slowly, so slowly, the delicate tints outlined the picture, and every touch sent a thrill through my frame, and made me feel that this should be my master-piece. How hard I worked that winter! I grew thin, wild-eyed, and anxious; but I was buoyed up by an indomitable will, and a determination to resist every impediment in the way of my progress. I made a martyr of myself, and never knew it. Day in and day out, with the least possible relaxation of body or mind, I spent myself a prodigal to the last. It stood on my easel completed, and yet how I hated to leave it! I fairly loved the insensate thing that had been my close companion for so many months. It seemed instinct with life, and I hung around it and caressed it with all the fondness of a parent for his offspring. It was full of beauty to me, but I was a partial judge. The world must be the umpire, and I—had I patience to await the world's decision? As soon as it was noised about that the picture at which I had worked so assiduously was really finished my studio was turned into a reception-room and visited by high and low. I noted its effect upon all; I watched the start of surprise, the appreciating glance, the critical scrutiny; received the congratulations of many, and felt satisfied with the result. I said I was a lotus-eater. After the completion of my picture the chord which had but responded to the touch of the artist vibrated anew to the home-melody that surged wildly through my being. It was the "Rans aux Vaches" to me, and every hour added to the intense longing to be once more at home. You know the feeling; how impossible it is to be patient, how every trifle hinders, and how far your heart outruns your footsteps. I had decided to exhibit my chef-d'œuvre in the "Academy of Design" the ensuing season. Already I anticipated the meeting with my mother and Mattie. I had altered so they would never know me, and I pictured to myself the rapturous joy with which they would greet me, and the pride they would feel in my acquired honors. We landed at the pier, and it seemed an age before I could secure my baggage and attend to the safe transportation of my treasure. The cars lagged fearfully; the engine fairly crawled along the iron way. Above all the din that accompanied us I could hear my heart beating as if it said, "Too late, too late," and it seemed to madden me. I reached my native village late in the afternoon of a sweet June day. I sought my home. A terrible apprehension seized me as I touched the latch of the gate. The presence of an invisible something seemed to hold me where I stood. Roses clambered up the cottage wall, and their fragrance, though sweet, sickened me. There was the heliotrope I gave to Mattie, the mignonette, mother's favorite, the velvet-leaved pansies, but all so choked up and overgrown with weeds that I had not been familiar with the spot I could never have discerned them. Desolation was written all over my once happy home. Probably mother and Mattie had removed to a smaller house. I inquired at the next neighbor's, and was stared at as though I had come with a writ of "habeas corpus" which was instantly to be put in execution. Finally an old man came forward, whom I remembered well as having been one of my patrons some years previous, and with much circumlocution and hesitation of manner he directed me to a certain part of the village. Thither I went, and being obliged to pass the graveyard I halted to look at the spot where my father was buried ten years before. What was that? A phantasm of a brain surcharged with intense emotions? A dread reality? It cannot be! I jerked open the wicket gate, and with a trembling hand and eyes suffused with tears, spelled out the inscription on the glittering tombstone—"Mary, wife of Jonas —." I clasped the sod that covered all that was mortal of my mother and sobbed out my agony, longing all the while—oh, how intensely!—for her faithful breast to lean upon. While I was recovering from my paroxysm into which my grief had thrown me, I heard footsteps advancing, and ere I could calm myself to anything like composure, I felt that some one stood beside me. I arose, half angry at the intrusion on my private sorrow, and stood face to face with Mattie. I knew her, although she had changed somewhat, and I held her in my arms and thanked God that he had left me something to live for. She had come with flowers for our mother's grave, and she drew herself from me with a laugh and began arranging a wreath. "Arthur is coming home, you know," she murmured; "he loves flowers, and so does mother. We will be real happy when brother Arthur comes." She went away and left me to watch and wait. It's very tiresome. Every Summer the birds and flowers tell me he's coming. They are pretty cheats." Heaven defend me! My darling sister insane! This was worse than death. No use telling her her brother had returned; the unconscious look in her eye forbade that. I prayed that the ground might open and ingulf us both and so finish the drama of our lives. But it could not be. I found the family with whom Mattie made her home, and learned from them what she and my mother had endured through my neglect—trials which physically and mentally had done their work. I am famous. But love is better than fame. I have won the affection of my sister, over whose weakened brain there comes a dim consciousness of the relationship I bear to her. I find my happiness in making others happy. When I stand before my picture and drink in the praise that comes to the author through it, and realize the accomplishment of my desires, over the canvas the panorama of my life seems passing, and when I think what I have paid for the bubble I feel that it is not worth the price. —Josephine Pollard.