The
preference, therefore, shewn towards our friend McGuilp by the tenant of
the haunted chamber had raised him at once in the esteem of the whole
club, and the marked respect with which he was treated by the other
guests, all of them older men than himself, did not fail to escape the
quick eye of Helen, who felt inwardly flattered that the man for whom
she had conceived so warm a sympathy, should be so honoured among his
better fellows. Our artist and his model had been left together for upwards of
three-quarters of an hour, during which time McGuilp had not opened his
mouth to exchange a single word with his sitter, a habit of his when
unusually engrossed in his work. He had glazed and scumbled, chopped and
changed about his drawing, laid on impasto, worked upon the background,
and so absorbed was he with his picture, the time had passed as if it
had been five minutes. A considerable change, however, had taken place
in the portrait. There was more life and vigour, the tints were more
natural and the head now stood more out in relief. Helen never once
attempted to break the silence, but remained modest and immovable in her
position as a statue. Had she been a vain and foolish girl or a
coquette, she might have been irritated by the painter's silence,
misconstruing it into a sign of insensibility to her charms, but no such
thought for a moment entered the head of our Helen. On the contrary, she
looked with the deepest awe and reverence on the painter whose art
required so much silence and concentration, and instead of calling away
his attention from his work by some frivolous remark, she mentally
resolved to aid him to the utmost by posing as patiently as it lay in
her power. Nevertheless, after a long sitting, a change is apt to come over the
face of the sitter. The muscles become flaccid, the colour vanishes, the
eye grows vacant, and an expression of languor and weariness takes the
place of the bright healthy look that the sitter bore at the
commencement. This is especially the case with young people, and so it
was with Helen, who, spite of her laudable endeavours to do justice to
her portrait painter, had unconsciously grown several shades paler, and
had so altered in expression that our artist, finding it impossible to
continue his work, deemed it advisable to give his model a little
repose. "That will do, Helen, for the present," said he; "take a little rest,
until you can call back the roses to your cheek and the life to your
eye. There, then, you may look if you like, but there is much to be done
yet, I can tell you." "Oh, I think you have done wonders this sitting," said Helen, as she
stood contemplating her own portrait from behind the artist's chair,
with her head resting on her hand. "It appears to me as like as it can possibly be already. I do not see
what more there is to do to it." "Do you not, Helen?" said McGuilp. "Then you are very easily satisfied,
but it is not so with us. We artists are the most discontented people
under the sun. We know that however well a portrait may be painted, it
can never come up to the original, and yet we are never contented, even
with our utmost endeavours to approach it." "Then, we who know nothing about your art are happier in our ignorance
than the artists themselves who have studied art all their lives,"
remarked Helen. "Very often," replied McGuilp with a sigh; "nevertheless, there is a
pleasure in the mere pursuit of art, however far removed the work of the
artist may be from his ideal, that he would not exchange for the calm
satisfaction of the uninitiated who perceive no fault." At this moment a sound of cheering and clapping of hands proceeding from
the club-room interrupted the dialogue between the painter and his
model. "What can all that noise mean?" ejaculated Helen. "Ah, I can guess. Mother has just finished telling her story to the gentlemen of the club,
and they are applauding her." "Is it so, Helen?" said McGuilp. "Well, as they have been enjoying a story from which we have been
excluded, I see no reason why we should not have a story all to
ourselves. What do you say?" "Oh, by all means," said Helen; "but I am a poor storyteller. Pray do
not ask _me_ for one, but if you know of a story, why of course I am all
attention." "Let me see, then," said McGuilp. "What sort of story would you like to
hear?" "Oh, tell me something about Italy. _I should_ like to hear so,"
answered Helen. "Would you? Then I think I can remember a little circumstance that
occurred in Italy within my experience, which I will relate to you if
you will resume your seat, for I have but little time to lose. We can
work and talk at the same time. Your colour has now returned, and my
story may possibly help to preserve it until the end of the sitting." Helen then resumed her seat, and McGuilp having seized once more his
palette and brushes and placed himself in front of his easel, continued
his portrait whilst he related the following story. FOOTNOTES:

[1] Scharfrichter or executioner; literally, "the sharp judge." [2] The reader is begged to excuse the anachronism. Byron did not write
these lines until several years later. [3] Another name for headsman or hangman. [4] Philister or Philistine. [5] The moss. Slang word among German students for money. [6] Löwen--also money. [Illustration]


CHAPTER III. THE THREE PAULS. [7]--THE ARTIST'S THIRD STORY. During my travels in Italy I happened once to be sojourning for some
time in an obscure and sequestered Italian village high up in the
Apennines, that chain of mountains which runs through the entire
peninsular like the backbone of some antediluvian monster. They are curious places, those Italian villages, with their tall, narrow
houses and small windows, built up the slant of a mountain like steps of
stairs. Their quaint roofs, balconies, arches, and buttresses, with at
every step some rustic shrine containing a rude painting or
representation of the Virgin Mary (the Madonna as they call her) or
other saint. The narrow, dirty, ill-paved streets, the tumbling-down
houses, from the windows of which the picturesque but dirty inhabitants
may almost shake hands with one another across the road. Then the odd nooks and angles in the by-streets that meet the stranger's
eye on either hand as he ascends the uneven and slippery path-way
leading to the highest point of view, which is generally crowned by some
ruined feudal castle or fort built upon a rock and overgrown with ivy. They have a distinct character of their own, these mountain villages,
and are as unlike as possible to anything seen in England. A mere verbal
description is inadequate to give the faintest idea of their extreme
picturesqueness. They require to be seen, and when this is impossible, a
picture or sketch must give the next best idea of them to the mind of
the stranger. I have several studies in oil-colour of these places
within my portfolio, which you may look at for a moment if you like.