Sunday Dispatch

[Written for the Sunday Dispatch.]

GRATITUDE

BY CHRISTINE H. CARPENTER.

I returned to my lodgings in the Rue Pont Neuf tired, gloomy and dissatisfied. Unless there was some wonderful interposition of fate, I must remain poor, obscure and unknown for the next twelve months. This was my conviction, a disheartening one, surely, for an ambitious man having no friends but his own wits and exertions to raise him in the world. The hope I had cherished for the last year had failed me—the hope that had inspired genius, thrown light upon hours of darkness, and guided my pencil in the work that was to bring me fame or despair. Like most young and working painters I had set my heart upon putting my picture upon exhibition in some gallery devoted to the purpose, feeling it would be justly appreciated, and that this must be the first step toward gaining that notice which renders you the people's passion.

Some enterprising manager induced by visions of pecuniary benefit to favor the struggling artists, entered upon a scheme for such an exhibition, and I fancied my long sought opportunity had arrived. I had a pet subject, a favorite theme which should gleam like living thought from the inanimate canvas, so I diligently labored night and day, giving up all desire, all rest and recreation to succeed, and when my work was finished, truly a fine specimen of art, claimed the privilege of a place for it, with many other aspirants for a similar favor.

This day for my answer, after long and careful search, I had discovered it hanging in one of the most remote nooks; a picture particularly requiring light, shrouded in a dull gray gloom, that mingled all its shades into one sombre tint, the figures obscured, almost indiscernible even to my accustomed eye. It was the worst place in the entire hall, and there it must remain despite my entreaties to the contrary; the directors refused to see its merits, its requirements, and sick at heart with disappointment I was forced to leave it to its fate. I was miserably unhappy, poorer, more disconsolate than ever; at that moment life was hopeless.

In despair I went up to my easel and drew my brush across the sketch that occupied it. The sight of my labor annoyed me, for I was in that fever when a man beholds the pursuit to which he has devoted the best and fairest years of his life, useless to him, when the study of the past, the diligence, the exertion presents itself as vain. I threw the brush upon the floor, and turned to the window near by with an anxious longing to forget my mortification; just then I felt this to be impossible, but the next instant every other emotion was swallowed up in one of the deepest surprise. I saw a bouquet of bright, beautiful, blushing flowers, mingled with the purest, most vivid green, in a pretty vase, standing upon the narrow sill in the sunshine. When I had last seen this window the sun had been streaming upon a defaced time-worn strip of board, ugly and monotonous. I remembered this, and three questions hurriedly suggested themselves—how could I have overlooked them since my return? whence had they come, and from whom? The first was easily disposed of, upon the plea of intense preoccupation of mind, the remaining two were enigmas I puzzled myself in vain to answer. Not that I possessed so many friends that I found a difficulty in selecting one to be the donor of this gift. But that I had no friends who could think of me to bestow them.

Friends!—how scarce they were, for my lot was poverty, and true friends, warm human hearts that cling to you even in adversity, are so rarely found. There were none to whom I could impute this surprise, and perhaps I should have fallen into the belief that they had been carelessly consigned to the wrong destination; but I was young, with a vivid imagination, and a heart that even yet through all the rude buffets of the world, retained its romance, therefore I set to work, no doubt, very foolishly, weaving pleasant little dreams about them, incoherent and absurd. One good effect resulted—the exquisite sorrow and disappointment with which I had come home was dispelled. Some one had entered my room in my absence, owing to a disarrangement of the slight lock I had been unable to fasten it, and unlike unknown visitors, who are ofttimes wont to appropriate your property, to give unwelcome notice of their presence, the beneficent interloper had left me a treasure almost priceless; this was a certainty. It was for me a sufficient foundation for the wildest surmises.

Flowers! like many others I loved them passionately, my eyes had gazed often so wishfully, but I had been too poor to purchase, and with the griping hand of want upon us, we cannot afford to indulge a fancy whose gratification is not absolutely necessary.

I searched every leaf of this strange and unexpected gift, for some token of the donor, some tiny missive, a word to betray the giver. but I sought vainly; yet every leaf that fell I treasured as a precious gem—some one remembered me. Desolate and alone, give this knowledge to your heart, and learn what a potent consolation it will prove. It gave me fresh courage, new love for my profession; awakened new and tender fancies. I painted once more; this time at a Madonna, with eyes like the violets of my bouquet, and hair like the golden sunshine that softly kissed the delicate blossoms. It was a noble, angelic face; an inspired conception. I felt an inward consciousness of power, that this could not be destined for obscurity; it was a presentiment, a conviction, a part of myself; I believe there is a powerful magnetism in such inspired faith —a magnetism that influences and compels the world, our world, the world that encircles us—society.

My flowers faded. I grieved; I could not bear to see them pale—to know this joy on earth was perishable. I would have had them immortal; but the violets still drooped, and were no longer the hue I had chosen for the tearful eyes of the Virgin Mother. The last one had withered; I went out for a walk upon the Boulevards for recreation and air; went sadly, for the link which had seemed to connect me with a congenial soul was broken, with the flowers' decay. It was the hour I usually devoted to this purpose when not too busy, and I seized on the occasion to visit the gallery as the only admirer of my luckless picture. Its gloom was reflected on my spirit, and I returned home again unhappy. My eyes went involuntarily to the little window; I uttered an exclamation of delight; my flowers were renewed—there were fresh violets, daisies and geranium. As before, my room had been entered in my absence. Was the kind donor some pitying fairy, bringing them as blossoms of hope from her bower home?

Having no treasures save perhaps some unfinished pictures, and the locality being too poor to invite thieves, I had not taken the precaution of having the lock mended, so that free ingress was offered the unknown visitor. Could I think of opposing a lock to such an intruder? No; not if the intrusion was daily. I was blessed; I was regularly remembered; I was made to feel I was not forgotten in the busy world. At regular intervals the faded bouquet was replaced by those fresh and blooming as that which first had lifted my spirit from darkness into light, yet the donor remained unknown. No neighboring lodger of whom I inquired knew of a visitor during my absence. I could obtain no information in this way.

Hope felt, was hope realized. I went again to the Gallery, and found the obscure nook occupied. There was a corpulent gentleman, and a fair young lady—as I learned from their conversation, his niece—and they were scrutinizing my picture.

"Uncle, it is really a pity—the picture deserves better hanging; I cannot bear to see my favorite subjects pushed into out-of-the-way places to make room for flat landscapes and expressionless faces! Make a complaint—no, Uncle, buy this picture: it will be delightful for the blue room—the east corner—"

"It is well painted, Julie."

"Well?—admirably!"

"The artist's name is—not given in the list."

"He is obscure perhaps."

"Most likely, from the place the picture occupies."

"Seek him out, uncle."

I can give no more of this conversation in detail. I was too delighted and confused to hear distinctly, but withal I was too conscious of my own wants and interests to remain silent on this tempting opportunity, and when the gentleman seeing me standing near, asked me if I knew the painter, I modestly proclaimed myself its author; the young lady who had been so enthusiastic in praise of my work, blushed deeply. I regarded her as an angel: her will crossed my destiny, and flung across the sombre path a glorious burst of sunshine. Did she read my thought? it must have shone on my face.

Monsieur Montheil was a devoted patron of the art, and passionately fond of his niece; she had requested the picture, and he purchased it, I was resolved it should be at his own price, and I was amply repaid. He came next to my studio, and my Madonna gladdened it no more—it became his—it was for Julie, that was enough. I wished from my soul that I might lay the fairest treasures of the world at her feet.

I had spirit now to aspire to anything, my flowers had been the secret agents to save me from despair, to awaken that likeness of the divine saint I had painted; I wove romances faster than ever. I mused again upon the generous donor of my flowers, none but the young and fair could have chosen such a tasteful offering. I longed to know her, to behold her, to learn the motive which impelled the beautiful gift, and yet a strange dread detained me from seeking to penetrate the mystery, for mystery is delightful, and I feared to break the spell. Like all humanity, I was devoured by curiosity, yet a feeling such as a reverence for holy things kept me from satiating it as if the desire was unhallowed.

The name of Monsieur Montheil, his patronage and favor, one of the richest bankers of Paris, was a talisman that won for me the coveted laurel wreath of fame: My Madonna was the theme for busy tongues, its value was fully recognised, and Julie's magical will had raised me to eminence. I was no longer poor, I was rich in prospective, orders poured upon me in rapid succession, until it became necessary I should take less obscure lodgings. Of late I had begun to indulge in a new and vague dream of the gentle fairy who, in my absence bestowed those inestimable tokens of interest. I hugged it closely to my heart, and I even dared to hope that in the future, in the days of prosperity I might be blest with the love, that in days of adversity blest me with flowers.

There was one fair face always mingled with the vision. I had seen it—in the gloomiest nook of the gallery before my unfortunate picture—to me it had glared radiant as heaven—had it caught its bloom from the blushing roses of my mysteriously coming souvenirs.

If I should wake and find it all illusion, I became determined to solve the enigma, to watch and detect the unknown in her beneficence.

I set out as usual for my daily walk, but returning by another route immediately, and secreted myself in the neighborhood where I had a full view of my open window, that I might see any one who appeared at the casement. I watched for some time, but no one entered the house save an old enfeebled woman, poorly yet neatly clad, carrying a small covered basket. I set her down as a friend of some of my neighbors. I waited for an hour yet saw no one else enter, but I distinctly perceived a hand draw down the dingy curtains of my window, its owner cautiously keeping out of view from the street, and the vase of faded flowers was taken in, and presently reappeared refilled with those fresh and sparkling with the morning dew. I paused for some moments in surprise, and thought at length—“it must be one of my neighbors who had personated the generous angel,” yet knew of none at all likely to prove so charitable. I crossed the street and entered the building—I encountered no one—my room was vacant, but the flowers were there. Again when these were faded I went my accustomed way, but in ten minutes I returned and ascended to my apartment —the door was partially closed, but I heard a light footstep within. I smiled softly to myself—I shall surprise the charming creature who thus tenderly thinks of me, and gently pushing open the door, I crossed the threshold I saw only an old decrepit woman, but on my table lay my faded blossoms, and in her hand she held a bouquet such as those I had so often received.

I felt a bitter pang of disappointment—such an awakening from a painter's cherished dream —my dream of Julie—of the future—of radiant youth—vanity of vanities, all is vanity.

I was silent; my entrance had been made so quietly my visitor did not hear it. The flowers were arranged and consigned to the window-sill, when she turned to depart—she held a covered basket in her hand—it was the old woman I had observed enter on the previous occasion. She started confusedly upon seeing me, and stammered:

"Monsieur must pardon—"

"You have given me the flowers?" I interrupted hastily.

"Monsieur is not angry?"

Angry at what had been my salvation in my saddest moments of despondency! She was old and withered—had I not dreamed of a paragon, a saint, but could I be ungrateful?

"Angry?" I repeated; "I cannot sufficiently thank you, but—"

"Monsieur would ask, who am I? You gave alms and assistance to a wretched, homeless old woman, in the Rue de —, one cold night, when, almost freezing, starving in the midst of plenty, with no helping hand to aid, he ventured to become a beggar for the first and only time, Monsieur, I never forgot the only kind face amid the throng that passed me —the only hand outstretched to give relief. You were poor—your dress betrayed you. I vowed never to forget, and sometimes the memory of the aged passeth that of youth. A miracle was worked. Friends whom for years I had not beheld were suddenly encountered, and fate placed in my hands a moderate income, sufficient to enable me to pass my last days in comparative comfort. I longed to repay you. One day you stood beside a flower-stand in the Rue St. Marguerite, and I saw and knew you. You would have bought some, but your hand left your pocket empty—you had nothing to spend. You looked longingly at the blossoms. I thought you might take them as a gift, but did not care you should know the donor, as from such a source you might refuse. I learned the whereabouts of your lodgings, and secretly procured admission, watching for your absence, and leaving the house by the rear passage leading into the other street. No one suspected me. The first time you found my offering in your window you smiled, you were pleased—it was enough. At length you have discovered me."

I have modified the language, but preserved the substance of my visitor's narrative. It was a strange one—a strange evidence of gratitude. I remembered giving the alms and recognized the recipient—my bread cast upon the waters had returned to me.

My dream had not been verified in fancying Julie the giver, but after years brought me wealth, peace and prosperity, and best and dearest of all, my wife. This time it was no dream—it was Julie Montheil.

Who shall say I did not in a measure owe this fate to those mysterious flowers? Without them—without the sudden and spontaneous joy they had imparted—I should have withdrawn my picture from the gallery in hopeless despair, have never painted the Madonna, had courage to dream, or to win the bright reality. They were as an angel's smile; their remembrance is sweet to me now. Long years have passed into the mighty sepulchre of time; fame, love and happiness are mine; the grateful giver has long since vanished from earthly scenes; yet their fragrance, their beauty lives and ever will live in memory, fadeless, immortal.