“Forgive me, master, I could not help it. I had to do it.”
“Look at your work, you disobedient child! All that lives for you is a
monster, with a pretty face and crippled limbs.”
“Make amends for what I have done,” Maxa begged, beginning to cry.
“I cannot do that,” said the master, sadly. “Your creation lives. It
belongs to you alone. Will you destroy it, and make another?”
“No!” shrieked Maxa in horror, hurrying to the girl as if to save her
from destruction. The young girl knelt before her, laid her head in her
lap, and looked at her very mournfully. Maxa, being a Sunday child,
was, without knowing it, a poetess, so she could give the mute girl
speech, and she began to say in sorrowful tones:—
“Little mother dear, why
Crooked, ugly, am I,
Not pretty like you?
Since thou madest me live,
Why didst thou not give
Joy and loveliness, too?”
Maxa hugged and kissed her, and tried to comfort her. She was not ugly,
she whispered into her ear, but beautiful as the day; no one could help
loving her, and she would give her the handsomest clothes and the most
splendid jewels. But the young girl, shaking her head, answered:—
“Gems bright and rare,
Silk and velvet fair,
No joy bestow.
Little mother, I pray, leave me not so.”
Maxa, in her distress, turned to the master, who stood with folded
arms, gazing sadly at her and the complaining girl. “Master, dear
master, help me just this once. I will never be disobedient again. I
cannot bear to have the creature I have made so unhappy. Help me, or
kill us both.” The master made no reply, but paced up and down the
studio several times, absorbed in thought. Some minutes passed in this
way, while Maxa followed him anxiously with her eyes. At last he
stopped and said, “Your girl must remain as she is, but I will do what
I can to make her happy.” Going to the canvas, he began to paint. He
made a young prince, handsome as the day, slender as a fir tree, with
kindly eyes and smiling face, who stretched both hands toward the girl
and gazed at her tenderly. And there, too, stood the young prince in
reality, stretching both hands toward the girl as he did in the
picture. Then the master said: “He loves you, and will marry you, and
always be your faithful husband. He cannot speak, but you can talk
enough for both. If you like him, give him your hand.”
The young girl, blushing, rose and went slowly toward the prince. She
limped slightly, but the prince did not seem to notice it. Gazing
joyously into her sparkling gray eyes, which she cast down, he clasped
her in his arms. The negro maids clapped their hands in delight and
danced around the pair. The easel stalked along shakily, the paint-box
jumped merrily, but Maxa said mournfully:—
“What good will all this do? The lover won’t make the girl more
beautiful.”
“You don’t understand,” said the master. “When one loves anybody with
all one’s heart, one thinks her more beautiful than anything else in
the whole wide world. Ask the bride what she says about it.” Maxa cast
a searching glance at the young girl, who nestled closely to her
prince, saying with a happy smile:—
“His love is true beyond compare;
Just as I am he finds me fair.
His heart is now my happiness;
I need not beauty life to bless.”
The prince nodded and kissed his future bride.
“Well, then,” said Maxa, “if you are both satisfied, I will be, too,
and I thank you, master, for having made everything turn out for the
best.”
But the artist answered: “I could help once, but never again. Let this
be a lesson to you. Great power is given to the artist. But woe betide
him if he uses it recklessly! Farewell. I can teach you nothing more.”
Before she could speak a word, he had vanished, and with him the
lovers, the black maid-servants, the easel, and the paint-box; but the
studio and all its contents remained, including the picture with the
prince and the girl. Whenever Maxa saw it afterward, her heart grew
both sad and joyous—sad because the girl she had created had
disappeared, and joyous because she felt that she must be happy with
her prince. Maxa herself grew up into a tall, beautiful girl, whom
everybody recognized as a Sunday child. She continued to paint, but no
longer with a magic brush, and this was well for her.
Who can be sure that his work will always succeed?—and it is far too
dangerous to make a mistake when, for each error, a living being must
suffer all through life.