Volume 2 — The Mysterious Artist.

One beautiful summer morning, about the year 1630, several youths of Seville, in Spain, approached the dwelling of the celebrated painter Murillo, where they arrived nearly at the same time. After the usual salutations, they entered the studio or workshop of the artist. Murillo was not yet there, and each of the pupils walked up quickly to his easel to examine if the paint had dried, or perhaps to admire his work of the previous evening.

“Pray, gentlemen,” exclaimed Isturitz angrily, “which of you remained behind in the studio last night?”

“What an absurd question!” replied Cordova; “don’t you recollect that we all came away together?”

“This is a foolish jest, gentlemen,” answered Isturitz. “Last evening I cleaned my palette with the greatest care, and now it is as dirty as if some one had used it all night.”

“Look!” exclaimed Carlos; “here is a small figure in the corner of my canvass, and it is not badly done. I should like to know who it is that amuses himself every morning with sketching figures, sometimes on my canvass, sometimes on the walls. There was one yesterday on your easel, Ferdinand.”

“It must be Isturitz,” said Ferdinand.

“Gentlemen,” replied Isturitz, “I protest—”

“You need not protest,” replied Carlos; “we all know you are not capable of sketching such a figure as that.”

“At least,” answered Isturitz, “I have never made a sketch as bad as that of yours; one would think you had done it in jest.”

“And my pencils are quite wet,” said Gonzalo in his turn. “Truly, strange things go on here in the night.”

“Do you not think, like the negro Gomes, that it is the Zombi, who comes and plays all these tricks?” said Isturitz.

“Truly,” said Mendez, who had not yet spoken, being absorbed in admiration of the various figures which were sketched with the hand of a master in different parts of the studio, “if the Zombi of the negroes draws in this manner, he would make a beautiful head of the virgin in my Descent from the Cross.”

With these words, Mendez, with a careless air, approached his easel, when an exclamation of astonishment escaped him, and he gazed with mute surprise at his canvass, on which was roughly sketched a most beautiful head of the virgin; but the expression was so admirable, the lines so clear, the contour so graceful, that, compared with the figures by which it was encircled, it seemed as if some heavenly visitant had descended among them.

“Ah, what is the matter?” said a rough voice. The pupils turned at the sound, and all made a respectful obeisance to the great master.

“Look, Senor Murillo, look!” exclaimed the youths, as they pointed to the easel of Mendez.

“Who has painted this? who has painted this, gentlemen?” asked Murillo, eagerly; “speak, tell me. He who has sketched this virgin will one day be the master of us all. Murillo wishes he had done it. What a touch! what delicacy! what skill! Mendez, my dear pupil, was it you?”

“No, Senor,” said Mendez, in a sorrowful tone.

“Was it you then, Isturitz, or Ferdinand, or Carlos?”

But they all gave the same answer as Mendez.

“It could not however come here without hands,” said Murillo, impatiently.

“I think, sir,” said Cordova, the youngest of the pupils, “that these strange pictures are very alarming; indeed, this is not the first unaccountable event which has happened in your studio. To tell the truth, such wonderful things have happened here, one scarcely knows what to believe.”

“What are they?” asked Murillo, still lost in admiration of the head of the virgin by the unknown artist.

“According to your orders, Senor,” answered Ferdinand, “we never leave the studio without putting everything in order, cleaning our palettes, washing our brushes, and arranging our easels; but when we return in the morning, not only is everything in confusion, our brushes filled with paint, our palettes dirtied, but here and there are sketches, (beautiful ones to be sure they are,) sometimes of the head of an angel, sometimes of a demon, then again the profile of a young girl, or the figure of an old man, but all admirable, as you have seen yourself, Senor.”

“This is certainly a curious affair, gentlemen,” observed Murillo; “but we shall soon learn who is this nightly visitant.” “Sebastian,” he continued, addressing a little mulatto boy of about fourteen years old, who appeared at his call, “did I not desire you to sleep here every night?”

“Yes, master,” said the boy, timidly.

“And have you done so?”

“Yes, master.”

“Speak, then; who was here last night and this morning before these gentlemen came? Speak, slave, or I shall make you acquainted with my dungeon,” said Murillo angrily to the boy, who continued to twist the band of his trowsers without replying.

“Ah, you don’t choose to answer,” said Murillo, pulling his ear.

“No one, master, no one,” replied the trembling Sebastian with eagerness.

“That is false,” exclaimed Murillo.

“No one but me, I swear to you, master,” cried the mulatto, throwing himself on his knees in the middle of the studio, and holding out his hands in supplication before his master.

“Listen to me,” pursued Murillo. “I wish to know who has sketched the head of this virgin, and all the figures which my pupils find here every morning, on coming to this studio. This night, instead of going to bed, you shall keep watch; and if by to-morrow you do not discover who the culprit is, you shall have twenty-five strokes from the lash—you hear! I have said it; now go, and grind the colors; and you, gentlemen, to work.”

From the commencement till the termination of the hour of instruction, Murillo was too much absorbed with his pencil to allow a word to be spoken but what regarded their occupation, but the moment he disappeared, the pupils made ample amends for this restraint, and as the unknown painter occupied all their thoughts, the conversation naturally turned to that subject.

“Beware, Sebastian, of the lash,” said Mendez, “and watch well for the culprit. Give me the Naples yellow.”

“You do not need it, Senor Mendez; you have made it yellow enough already; and as to the culprit, I have already told you that it is the Zombi.”

“Are these negroes fools or asses, with their Zombi?” said Gonzalo, laughing; “pray what is a Zombi?”

“Oh, an imaginary being, of course. But take care, Senor Gonzalo,” continued Sebastian, with a mischievous glance at his easel, “for it must be the Zombi who has sketched the left arm of your St. John to such a length that, if the right resembles it, he will be able to untie his shoe-strings without stooping.”

“Do you know, gentlemen,” said Isturitz, as he glanced at the painting, “that the remarks of Sebastian are extremely just, and much to the point.”

“Oh, they say that negroes have the faces of asses, and the tongues of parrots,” rejoined Gonzalo, in a tone of indifference.

“With this distinction,” observed Ferdinand, “that the parrot repeats by rote, while Sebastian shows judgment in his remarks.”

“Like the parrot, by chance,” retorted Gonzalo.

“Who knows,” said Mendez, who had not digested the Naples yellow, “that from grinding the colors, he may one day astonish us by showing that he knows one from another.”

“To know one color from another, and to know how to use them, are two very different things,” replied Sebastian, whom the liberty of the studio allowed to join in the conversation of the pupils; and truth obliges us to confess that his taste was so exquisite, his eye so correct, that many of them did not disdain to follow the advice he frequently gave them respecting their paintings. Although they sometimes amused themselves by teasing the little mulatto, he was a great favorite with them all; and this evening, on quitting the studio, each, giving him a friendly tap on the shoulder, counselled him to keep a strict watch and catch the Zombi, for fear of the lash.

(To be continued.)