SEBIA'S TANGLED WEB.
CHAPTER I.
THE ROSE OF MAY.
THE model is the bane of the artist's existence," remarked Gorham Westminster, as he struck an attitude before an ideal painting,—a misty young woman of vague anatomy, charmingly but mysteriously costumed. "Realism," he continued, "is the great mistake of the day. Artists are degenerating into photographic machines, servilely rendering commonplace types and accidents of complexion. Whenever I follow my inspirations, and work, as we artists say, from chic, I am satisfied with the result; whereas in the whole course of my professional experience I have never found a satisfactory model,—never."
Gorham Westminster, familiarly called "Little Westminster" by his friends, paused, awaiting some remark from his audience. Mr. Crittenden, an unhealthy-looking gentleman of forty, crooked his lean hand and squinted through it meditatively at the picture. Blunt, the journalist, looked up from a portfolio of etchings, with the query, "Are they all so hideous?"
"No: some are really handsome. But that only makes the matter worse; for, of course, the better they are, the more they are in request. Any artist could go the rounds of one of our Academy exhibitions and tell who posed for nearly every figure-piece. 'Young lady in yellow satin, style de l'Empire,' Miss X. 'Young lady in poke bonnet à la Priscilla,' Miss X again. 'Young lady reading a letter,' modern costume, taken from advance proofs of forthcoming Paris fashions. Miss X, of course. Sylph, clad in rosy clouds and lambent light, Miss X, unmistakably. And no wonder; for she is one of the best, and very effective in any make-up. Her engagement-book has few blanks, and there is nearly always some artist tearing his hair because he can't get her to come and finish some particular sitting. And it is just the same with any of the really good professional models. There is Mrs. L. She poses admirably, is pretty, petite, and bewitching. Calef Moore makes an odalisque of her; Draper, a mediæval Florentine beauty, with a new arrangement of his sheeny satins and luscious velvets; or perhaps he meshes her in a whirlpool of ruffles, bandolines her hair to her temples in Andalusian quotation-marks, as who should say, 'From the Spanish,' arranges a veil over a high comb, and introduces her to the public as 'A Dream of Seville.' Acres furbishes up a Normandy cap, an Alsatian bow, a Swiss bodice, a Roman apron, and some wooden shoes from Amsterdam, and generalizes the whole museum into a 'Peasant- Girl,'—it doesn't matter of what particular country. There isn't a costume of any historical period or of any discovered country but has been made to pass in review; and, bless you! it is Mrs. L pure and simple through it all."
"I thought models chose one particular line, instead of scattering around generally."
"Not here in New York, Blunt. Here the profession has not as yet been reduced to such admirable order. In Paris, now, we have the genuine Italian model, who gives us the national traits of feature along with the costume. In an artistic community like Barbison or Ecouen, children of every age and variety are all labelled and parcelled ready for the artistic market. Grandams and veterans manage to make their hours of idleness useful. The nude is a profession by itself; while athletes get themselves into training until they serve very well for the antique. We had one young woman who swam like a fish, and had a portable tank carried around, in which she float-
