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Not that Clarian was effeminate, or in any material respect deficient in manly character; but his mother was a widow, and he her only son, and consequently he had been brought up like a girl, at home, without any slightest opportunity to acquire those rough-and-tumble experiences of ordinary boyhood which are so necessary to fit us for battling in the world; for the world, though not unfeeling at core, wears yet a sufficiently rough rind, and pretends but little sympathy with persons of Clarian's stamp.
But, though we rejoiced to see that Clarian's health promised to be better than it had been for months, we did not fail to notice with regret and apprehension, that, as he grew physically better and mentally clearer, a darkening cloud settled over his whole being, until he seemed on the point of drowning in the depths of an irremediable dejection and despair.
The lad laughed a little laugh of joy as he returned our embrace, and then silently nodded towards the picture again. Those old Princetonians who have seen Clarian's Picture will easily be able to explain our emotion upon beholding it thus for the first time.
At first he simply revelled in the new world of beauty that the Master's wand evoked, like a bird in the fresh, warm sunshine of returning spring. But this did not last long; the bird must busy himself with nest-building. Clarian's ardent, impetuous nature must evolve results, would not content itself with mere sensations.
"Potz tausend! the man is fou!" shouted Mac. "Come, drink your wine, Ned, and we'll have our coffee. It is quite time, I think, and he used to be a three-bottle fellow," muttered my dear old friend, sotto voce. "'Heu, heu! tempora mutantur, et nos' well, well, well!" Clarian's Picture! What a gush of recollection the words evoke!
The belfry clangs with a louder peal; even Clarian's Picture, though it hath utterly perished to the eye of sense, lives vivid in a thousand memories, and, having found in the tenderness of tradition and legend an engraver whose burin is as faithful as Raphael Morghen's, has left the damp dark wall, like Leonardo's Cenacolo, to accompany all of us to our firesides."
Even Bluebeard would forbear to strike down his pregnant wife, for the sake of what she bore under her bosom; and I, seeing the boy's careful study, and his long and laborious preparation, could not help looking forward to a result of commensurate importance. Nevertheless, it was my duty to have combated Clarian's tendencies, for I could not help seeing the daily injury they did him.
Clarian's Picture! what memories the mention of it stirred up! "Poor Clarian!" I murmured. "Poor, indeed I" repeated Mac, with a sneer. "He is only worth a lovely wife and six children, with half a million to back them. And he only weighs two hundred pounds, with I forget how many inches of fat over the brisket. Poor, indeed!
I shall never forget her looks as she came up the last time, turned her white, despairing, death-stricken face towards us, screamed a wild nightmare scream, and went down. Clarian's face was just like hers. Depend upon it, there's something wrong. What can we do?" Nothing, indeed, save what we did, wait, until that pleasant morning came round and brought me Clarian's note.
Clarian's eye was large and dark, tender, rather sad, with now and then a speculative depth, now and then a hint of the Romeo fore-doom, now and then a warm eloquence, when meeting yours, that reminded strangely of a woman loving and in love.