FINISHING PICTURES.
Arthur Merlin returned to his studio and carefully locked the door. Then
he opened a huge port-folio, which was full of sketches--and they were
all of the same subject, treated in a hundred ways--they were all Hope
Wayne.
Sometimes it was a lady leaning from an oriel window in a medieval tower,
listening in the moonlight, with love in her eyes and attitude, to the
music of a guitar, touched by a gallant knight below, who looked as
Arthur Merlin would have looked had Arthur Merlin been a gallant medieval
knight.
Then it was Juliet, pale and unconscious in the tomb; superb in
snow-white drapery; pure as an angel, lovely as a woman; but it was
Hope Wayne still--and Romeo stole frightened in, but Romeo was Arthur.
Or it was Beatrice moving in a radiant heaven; while far below, kneeling,
and with clasped hands, gazing upward, the melancholy Dante watched the
vision.
Or the fair phantom of Goethe's ballad looked out with humid, passionate
glances between the clustering reeds she pushed aside, and lured the
fisherman with love.
There were scores of such sketches, from romance, and history, and fancy,
and in each the beauty was Hope Wayne's; and it was strange to see that
in each, however different from all the others, there was still a charm
characteristic of the woman he loved; so that it seemed a vivid record of
all the impressions she had made upon him, and as if all heroines of
poetry or history were only ladies in waiting upon her. In all of them,
too, there was a separation between them. She was remote in sphere or in
space; there was the feeling of inaccessibility between them in all.
As he turned them slowly over, and gazed at them as earnestly as if his
glance could make that beauty live, he suddenly perceived, what he had
never before felt, that the instinct which had unconsciously given the
same character of hopelessness to the incident of the sketches was the
same that had made him so readily acquiesce in what Lawrence Newt had
hinted. He paused at a drawing of Pygmalion and his statue. The same
instinct had selected the moment before the sculptor's prayer was
granted; when he looks at the immovable beauty of his statue with the
yearning love that made the marble live. But the statue of Arthur's
Pygmalion would never live. It was a statue only, and forever. He asked
himself why he had not selected the moment when she falls breathing
and blushing into the sculptor's arms.
Alone in his studio the artist blushed, as if the very thought were
wrong; and he felt that he had never really dared to hope, however he
had longed, and wished, and flattered his fancy.
He looked at each one of the drawings carefully and long, then kissed
it and turned it upon its face. When he had seen them all he sat for a
moment; then quietly tore them into long strips, then into small pieces;
and, lifting the window, scattered them upon the air. The wind whirled
them over the street.
"Oh, what a pretty snow-storm!" said the little street children, looking
up.
Then Arthur Merlin turned to his great easel, upon which stood the canvas
of the picture of Diana and Endymion. Through the parted clouds the face
of the Queen and huntress--the face of Hope Wayne--looked tenderly upon
the sleeping figure of the shepherd on the bare top of the grassy
hill--the face and figure of Lawrence Newt.
The painter took his brushes and his pallet, and his maulstick. He paused
for some time again, as he stood before the easel, then he went quietly
to work. He touched it here and there. He stepped back to mark the
effect--rubbed with his finger--sighed--stepped back--and still worked
on. The hours glided away, and daylight began to fade, but not until
he had finished his work.
Then he scraped his pallet and washed his brushes, and seated himself
upon the sofa opposite the easel. There was no picture, of Diana or of
Endymion any longer. In the place of Diana there was a full summer moon
shining calmly in a cloudless heaven. Its benignant light fell upon a
solitary grave upon a hill-top, which filled the spot where Endymion
had lain.
Arthur Merlin sat in the corner of the sofa with folded arms, looking at
the picture, until the darkness entirely hid it from view.