"A little more to the light, please--so, that is better." The artist
worked rapidly; now and then letting his eyes rest for a moment on his
sitter, then returning to the face on the canvas, that was rapidly
growing under his hands.
The studio, a small Swiss cottage some distance from the business center
of St. Louis, was rather richly, though plainly, furnished. The walls
were tinted a neutral gray, an occasional piece of sober-hued drapery
hung here and there, while a heavily curtained arch at the back
connected with the artist's private apartments beyond.
On the opposite side of the room a door opened to the little entrance
hall, and near to this doorway was a carved oaken mantel, above which
were grouped together a number of curious weapons, evidently gathered
here and there as bric-a-brac, and used, perhaps, now and then, as
properties, in the arrangement of some picture.
There was the long-barreled and elaborately ornamented gun of the
Arab--the scimitar of the Turk--the blow-gun of the South American
Indian--the bow and arrow of his northern brother. At the bottom of this
array was a pair of French rapiers of the seventeenth century. The
blades were crossed and rested upon a brass-headed nail, and upon this
nail there hung, point downward, a jewel-hilted Italian stiletto or
dagger, suspended by a silken cord.
The room was lighted by a sky-light and one window--only the light of
the former falling upon the sitter--a large Japanese screen diverting
all other direct rays. Through the half-open casement a light breath of
summer crept in, from the little garden outside, freighted with the
mingled odors of sweet-briar and white flowering locust. A yellow
butterfly flitted in and out, now and then making a circuit of the room,
resting here and there for a moment to fan noiselessly with its bloomy
wings. A stray bee buzzed drowsily in, but, finding nothing so
attractive as the sweets without, hastily retreated, striking heavily
against the window-pane, where it sputtered and fumed for a time, and
gladly escaped. Then all was silent in the room save for the light
chafing sound made by the artist's brush against the hitherto untouched
canvas.
He at the easel was a man of about thirty years--Julian Paul Goetze, a
name already ranked high among his profession. His sitter was a woman of
perhaps twenty-three. Her figure was somewhat above medium height and
perfectly developed. She was clad in a plain, trimly fitting dress of
silver gray, with a neat white collar at the throat. Her face was a
perfect oval in its contour, her complexion almost childish in its
delicacy. Her hair, a silky brown in color, was fastened in a knot at
the back of her shapely head, while in front it was a fluffy mass that
partially concealed the forehead, and softly shadowed what seemed to the
artist to be the sweetest face in all the world. The features were as
delicately chiseled as one would expect to find them in a statue of
Purity. The eyes were a deep gray, inclining to hazel, and the coloring
of the cheek and lips so tender that the artist looked a little
despairingly at the tints upon his palette; while through all there
pervaded such an expression of absolute innocence and freedom from the
world's taint, as to find expression in but the one word, saintliness.
And yet there was something about the face of his sitter that brought a
troubled expression to that of the artist. As with bold, rapid strokes
he laid in the ground-work for the hair he looked puzzled. As he traced
the exquisite outline of the ear his look was almost one of vexation.
Once he left his easel, and, going to another canvas that rested on the
floor, face to the wall, he turned it partly about and looked at it
intently for a few moments. Then he resumed his work, evidently in deep
thought. For awhile he painted on in silence. He was inclined by nature
to be diffident at first with his sitters, and with this fair being the
beginning of a conversation seemed to him a thing as difficult as it was
desirable. There was a suggestion of weariness in her face, too, which
he felt would disappear with awakened interest.
"I--I beg pardon," he said, somewhat abruptly at length; "have you ever
had a portrait before?"
His voice was rich and musical, and the face before him brightened.
"Oh, no! And it is only by accident that I am having one now. I was
passing and saw your name; I knew it by reputation, and it occurred to
me all at once that I would sit for my picture. Perhaps I should have
waited and worn a different dress. It was only a passing impulse. It
never occurred to me before; I cannot tell why it did now."
The animation and the faint blush that had crept over her face while she
spoke were enchanting. The artist was delighted.
"Your dress could not have been better chosen, and the impulse was
surely an inspiration," he said, smiling, "and perhaps," he added, "you
may have a friend or--a--a relative who has had, or is having a
portrait, which suggested the idea."
As he paused he looked at her inquiringly. The look of weariness had
returned to her face.
"No; I have no relatives, and"--she blushed deeply and was silent.
"Forgive me," he said, earnestly; "I did not intend to be inquisitive."
She did not reply in words, but as she lifted her eyes there was a
tenderness there that awakened within him all the sympathy, the
nobleness and the affection of his purer and better nature. Their eyes
met, and in a single moment there was formed between them an invisible
bond which both felt and neither sought to conceal. No word was spoken.
The artist painted on in silence; but a new light had come into his
sitter's face, and a new source of inspiration into his own heart.
For a long time neither spoke. A dreamy hush seemed to creep in with the
sweet odors from the garden, and, with them, a summer restfulness and
peace. The yellow butterfly that had been hovering about them, flitting
this way and that, came closer and closer, and at last settled
fearlessly upon one of the gloved hands that lay folded in the sitter's
lap. She watched it for a moment, then looked up at the painter with a
smile.
"The insect has a true instinct," he said, gently; "it has no fear of
capture."
"No; I should only hurt it and destroy its beauty."
"Butterflies," said the artist, "are like beautiful thoughts. They hover
mistily about us, flitting away whenever we attempt to capture them; and
if at last we are successful we find only too often that their wings
have lost the delicacy of their bloom."
"Yes; I have felt that many times."
While she spoke the insect rose hastily in the air as if frightened,
and, circling about for a moment above them, darted out through the open
window.
"I have heard they are emblems of inconstancy, too," she said,
thoughtfully, as it disappeared.
A faint glow of crimson suffused for an instant the olive face before
her, but he forced a smile and did not reply.
The rest of the afternoon slipped away with but little interchange of
words between artist and sitter. When either spoke the words were few
and simple, but there was a tenderness in their voices that uttered more
than the spoken syllables.
The face on the canvas was growing rapidly. He had already worked longer
than he usually did at the first sitting, and yet he could not bear to
let her go. He had seen her for the first time less than two hours
before; he did not even know her name. The little white card which she
had given him he had glanced at without reading. He had only seen her
features, and heard only the gentle voice that had made known her
errand. And now he wondered if it were possible that only a few hours
before she had had no part in his life; a life wherein there had been
many lights and shadows, and the shadows had been ever as broad and
somber as the lights had been bold and brilliant.