At a fearful pace to her rocky den, For her young brood Away she bore him then. They were a charming family, Eleven little frights, With deep surprise in their light-green eyes, And they wagged their tails with extreme delight, Is a dainty thing When one usually dines on knight. Before them then the steed she threw, With the lion and knight, She was thoroughly used up. A lucky chance for Tidrich: He sought the dark cave over, Was this his grave?" In grief the monarch cried. "I have ridden with him in princely hosts, Sword, you and I will do or die, The king essayed The trusty blade, Till the flames gleamed far and wide. Up rose a youthful dragon then, For with fear and ire he viewed the fire These words he to the king did say: "If the noise thou dost make Should our mother awake, It is thou wilt rue the day." Then he aroused the dragon old, And a fearful fight, with strength and might, Made his cuirass stout Red hot throughout: Such a sight was never seen. Despair lent strength to the monarch then; A mighty stroke he made, Through the dragon's neck, without a check, At their mother's fall, each little fright Like an imp of hell, And nearly stunned the knight. He struck right and left with Adelring, And in pieces small he cut each and all With his strong right hand, Avenged brave Siegfried's fall. Now ye whose spirits thrill to hear And mourn that the days of chivalry And live no more, Save in their glorious memory. 174 THE SEVILLE PAINTER. CHAPTER I. It was sunrise, and the door of a small house, situated in a retired part of Seville, was gently opened, out of which issued a man still young, whose pale features showed that he was only just recovering from a severe illness; he was followed by a young woman. "If you feel strong enough, Esteban," said she, as she stopped in the doorway, while the Spaniard arranged the folds of his mantle, "you might go to the merchant Ozorio, and beg of him to wait a few days longer, as our little fellow has not yet finished the number of pictures which he ordered for the seaman's venture. Indeed I do not know what Barthélemi has been about these six months, for he does almost nothing, not even his escutcheons. Don Manuel's escutcheon is not begun, that of the Marquis of Sylva is not finished, those of Donna Inesilla, and the three brothers Henriquez, are in exactly the same state as the first day he got them; and Ozorio's pictures are not a bit more advanced." "I shall be able to work in a few days, Theresina," replied Esteban; "my eyes are better, and then I will help him." "That will not tell me how he spends his time," replied Theresina; "he who was formerly so good a workman, and used to be called the Little Escutcheon Painter, and had them finished almost as soon as ordered-Woe is me, should my child have got into bad company or bad habits!" "Does he always stay out for half the day?" "Alas! Esteban, for nearly the whole of it, this long time back." "And do you know where he goes, wife?" "I dare not ask him, Esteban: I am afraid of causing him to tell a falsehood." "But why do you take it for granted he would tell a lie, Theresina?" 66 Perhaps he might only give me an evasive answer, and that would be want of respect to me, and I could not bear that he should do that, either." "But he will perhaps answer you truly and satisfactorily," said Esteban. The mother shook her head. "If he intended that I should know, he would not wait for me to ask him," said she. "However, perhaps I am wrong to suspect him, or to be uneasy at his silence, and his mysterious conduct," added she, a moment after. "Are not all his earnings for us? For the six months you were ill, Esteban, was not Barthélemi the sole support of the house? Certainly it was not the produce of my needle merely that paid the physician or apothecary. And if I am uneasy, Esteban, I believe it is the very nature of a mother to be anxious; but to be sure he often returns home very late.” "Seville is a quiet place, Theresina; and then the little fellow never has money enough about him to cause any fear of thieves. However, I will scold him, Theresina: I will not let him make you thus uneasy." "Oh! pray do not scold him, Esteban; Barthélemi is an angel!" said the young mother, with a touching expression of maternal love. "Though God were to overwhelm us with the greatest misfortunesthough He were to deprive us of health, and plunge us in poverty, yet if He be graciously pleased to leave us this dear child, I would not, I could not complain; there is not such another in the world." "That is the way with all mothers!" said the invalid, smiling. "Just now she was accusing him; I promised to scold him for her, and then she begins to defend him. Be consistent at least, Theresina; either Barthélemi does his duty, and then I, as his father, can have nothing to say, or he neglects it, and in that case it is my place to reprimand him." "He is so very young," said Theresina, "that I am afraid of expecting too much from him." "He will soon be fourteen!" said the father. "He is barely thirteen," replied the mother; "Barthélemi was born on the 1st of January, 1618, and this is the 8th of March, 1631, just thirteen years two months, seven days." "Barthélemi is not alone: I hear some noise in his room," said Esteban. "Little Ozorio is with him: his father sends him to study under my son," said the young mother, with an air of pride which made the father smile. 66 My son is his master.” "The master and pupil seem to have pretty much the same amount of sense.-But listen, Theresina." Both being now silent, these words reached them: "You must laugh and cry when I please, or I will pummel you well," said the voice of a child, in an accent of the most imperious command. "That might be a good plan, and most effectual in producing the last result," said Esteban, moving away, "but as to laughter, it is scarcely likely to be very successful. Good day, Theresina: I am going to Ozorio." "And I will go and put a stop to what is going on above," replied Theresina, re-entering the house, whilst her husband slowly went on his way. CHAPTER II. THERESINA Slowly ascended a little wooden staircase, which led to the first story, and opening the door of a room at the top of this staircase, was seized with an involuntary burst of laughter at the scene presented to her view, but, quickly repressing it, she assumed an air of severity, which ill suited the sweet and gentle countenance of the young Spanish mother. An easel stood in the middle of the room, on which was a picture just begun, and not far from the easel was a boy of about ten years old, tied to a chair, and screaming with might and main; while another boy, somewhat taller, was tickling him, repeating in the gravest and most imperative tone, "Laugh, I say,-laugh, laugh!" "What is all this, Barthélemi?" said Theresina, having succeeded in recovering her gravity. "Oh! is it you, mother?" said Barthélemi, turning round. "You can be of such use to me. Will you tickle Meneses, whilst I am painting?" 66 No, no, Senora," said Meneses, in-a most piteous tone. "Pray do not." "To tickle the poor child!" said Theresina, "are you mad, Barthélemi?" "Mad! to do as Velasquez did!" said Barthélemi. "Velasquez is never out of his mouth," grumbled Meneses. "Velasquez is a great painter!" said Barthélemi, "and, please God, so will I be too." 66 I hope so," replied Theresina; "but most certainly it was not by tickling children that Velasquez acquired the talent which now places him at the head of the Gallo-Spanish school of Madrid." "Ah, but Velasquez had a peasant, who laughed or cried whenever he wished," said Barthélemi, "whilst there is no getting any good of Meneses." "Meneses is not a peasant," said the boy angrily. "He is the son of Senor Ozorio, picture-merchant, at the sign of the Palette of Apelles, on the Place de-la-Plata at Seville. My father sends me here to learn, and not to be tickled from morning till night." "If you laughed when I bid you, I should not have tickled you," replied Barthélemi, with the utmost gravity; "nor should I be obliged to beat you if you would cry when I order you. Tell me, do you think it can be amusing to me either to tickle or beat you ?" "And tell me, do think it can be so amusing to me to be beaten or tickled?" "The boy is right, Barthélemi." "Velasquez again!" interrupted Theresina. Without appearing to notice the interruption, Barthélemi continued, "Velasquez, after having studied under Ferrara the Elder and under François Pacheco, resolved to have no longer any other master than nature, and with this view attached to him a young peasant who accompanied him everywhere, and whom he made to assume every position which he wished to represent, and to laugh and cry at his pleasure, and I am only following his example. Who knows but that Seville will one day make a boast of having given birth to Barthélemi Esteban Murillo?-But enough: it is getting late, we must go. Come, Meneses." |