Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1860-03-31
THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH.
PROM THE GERMAN

tne1e stdndS HtLe Inn, tAll ana narrow, Win
nOtched gables, and dim window panes, and its
roof surmounted by plaster virgin. In this
L passed the saddest days Of my life. l had
gone to Nuremberg to study the old German
masters, but the want of money had compelled
Inc TO have recourse to painting portraits-and
such portraits, Fat gossips, with their cats on
their knees, aldermen in perukes, burgo-mas-
ters in three cOrnered hats, etc.-ail brilliant
with ochre and vermillion.
From portraits descended to sketches; then
to prOfles; at last, even these failed me-
There is nothing more pitiabe than to have
constantly at your heels landlord with thin
lips, screaming voice, and an impudent air,
who never loses chance to call out: "Are you
going 10 pay Inc soon, monsieur Do you know
how much your bill amounts to? Oh, no of
course this does not trouble you. Monsieur
eats, drinks, and sleeps quietly. The good
Lord takes care of the little sparrows Mon
sieur only owes two hundred forins and ten
kreutzers. A mere trife; not worth the trou-
hle OF mentioning.
Those who have never heard this pamut
sounding in their ears, can form no idea of the
horror of it. The love Of art, imagination, the
lofty enthusiasm for the beautiful-wither mt
the very breath of such a rascal. You become
weak and timid; you lose even the sentiment
OF your personal dignity, and salute at q dis
tance, and respectfully, the most clOwnish Of
burgomasters.
One night, having not sou in my pocket,
and being Threatened with prison by the
worthy master, Rapp, I sat down on my true
kle-bed and gave myself up to reflection. The
thought of suicide entered my head; and the
more reflected, the more desirable such an
exit from my troubles appeared to my mind.
% numerous and convincing were the argu-
ments in its favor which thronged upon me,
that L dared not look at my razor lest the ir-
resistible force of logic should compel me to
commit bankruptcy by cutting my throat. At
length blew out my candle, and threw my
self on the bed, with a determination to come
to decision on the next day.
My dreams were usually of the abominable
Rapp; my one desire, to get money that I
might rid myself of his Odious presence But
this night singular revolution took place in
my mind. In about an hour l rose and wrap-
ping myself in an old grey coat, L began to
trace on paper rapid sketch in the Dutch
style-something strange, fantastic, quite apart
from my habitual conceptions.
Imagine to yourself a sOmbre court, inclOsed
by high, dilapidated walls. These walls, gar
nished with hooks seven or eight feet from the
ground. suggest at once a slaughter-house On
the left through a trelliswork Of laths, YOU
discern quartered OK, suspended by strong
pulleys from the ceiling; drops of blood trick.
ling from 1t collect In gutter obstructed by
the refuse of the shambles The light in the
court comes from above, where chimneys, and
weathercocks, and storied roofs Of houses are
relieved against an angle of the sky At the
extremity is a shed; beneath il a wood pile,
upon which is a ladder, and scattered around
are seen ropes, bundles of straw, a rabbit-hut,
and hen-cOOpS, past service.
How did these heterogeneous details come
nsG bead d su s ss dhss yst every
stroke of the pencil seemed by its truthfulness
an exact copy. Nothing was wanting.
But on the right corner of the sketch re-
manned bare. L did not know what to put
- n r
looked upon 1T. Suddenly L saw foot, but it
was in reverse position, and detached from
the ground. Spite Of its improbability, fol-
lowed the inspiration, and sketched it, with
out stopping to account for my fancy. Then
the leg appeared and portion of the dress
At length the whole 6gure-an old woman,
haggard, wan, dishevelled, thrown down on
the edge of a well, struggling against a strong
hand which grasped her throat.
1t was murder that was sketching, The
crayon fell from my hands. The old woman
her face contracted by terror, her form bent
over the margin of the well, both hands grasp
ing the arm of her murderer-terrifed me. 1
dared not look at her. But the man-the
murderer-to whom the arm belonged l
could not seem it. 1t was impossible to finish
my sketch.
The sweat drops stood upon my brow. "I am
fa;igued,' L said. "But little remains to be
done. 1 will complete it Tomorrow and ter
and in five minutes slept profoundly.
The next day, as was about to resume my
work, knock resounded at the door
Come in" | called out; and q man some
what advanced in years, tall, thin, and dressed
in black, appeared upon the threshold The
whole pbysiOgnomy of the man-his closely
approximating eyes, his large aquilne nose,
his lofty, broad and bony brow-had something
severe and imposing. He saluted me gravely
M. Christian VENUS, the artist" he said
That is my name, sir"
"The Baron Frederic Van SpIs .kdal
The apparitiOn in my poor garret of this
amateur. Judge of the criminal court impressed
me strongly. 1 threw glance upon my worm
eaten furniture, tattered drsperies, and dirty
floor, and felt humiliated but Van Spreckdal
appeared to pay no attention to these details
master Venius,' he resumed, II have
comeH-
But at the moment his eyes were arrested by
the unfinished sketch, and he stopped.
Are you the author of this sketch?'' he
asked, after moments pause.
sYes, SIR
"Whst is the price of it2''
''I do not sell my sketches. 1t is q design
for picture"
All" said he; and lifting the paper with
his long, yellow finger, he took an eye-glass
from his waistcOat pocket, and began to study
1t attentively. The silence was so great that
L heard distinctly the plaintive buzzng of q
fly caught in spiders web.
And what will be the dimensions of the
picture Master VENUS, he said at length with
out looking at me.
Three feet by four"
And the price?"
Fifty ducats"
Van Spreckdal laid the sketch down on the
table, and drawing from his pocket a long
purse Of green silk, began to slip the rings
along. Fifty ducats, he said, and Counting
them out, ''here they are"
he rose saluted me, and departed; while I
sat stuPehed, listening to the clink of his iyory
headed cane upon the staircase.
when bad recovered from my stupefaction.
sat down to finish my sketch A few strokes
ot the pencil, and it would be finished. Rnt
these few strokes were out of my power. The
inspiration was over. The mysterious mur.
derer would not disengage himself from the
convolutions Of my brain. I tried again and
again. forced myself to draw; but the re-
suits were as discordant rs . figure of Raphael
In Dutch inn Of Teniers
At this moment, Rapp. according to his
praiseworthy custom, opened the door without
knocking. His eyes fell upon the pile of due
ats, and he shrieked
..Ah, ah! have caught you, Monsieur paint.