"She was great; no matter her name--she lives still. She was vile; aye,
but not in my sight till too late. Why is it that the heart which is
pure never makes ours beat upon it with the rapture sin gives? Through
month on month my picture grew, and my passion grew with it, fanned by
her hand. She knew that never would a man paint her beauty like one who
gave his soul for the price of success. I had my paradise; I was drunk;
and I painted as never the colors of mortals painted a woman. I think
even she was content; even she, who in her superb arrogance thought she
was matchless and deathless. Then came my reward; when the picture was
done, her fancy had changed! A light scorn, a careless laugh, a touch of
her fan on my cheek; could I not understand? Was I still such a child?
Must I be broken more harshly in to learn to give place? That was all!
And at last her lackey pushed me back with his wand from her gates! What
would you? I had not known what a great lady's illicit caprices meant;
I was still but a boy! She had killed me; she had struck my genius dead;
she had made earth my hell--what of that? She had her beauty eternal in
the picture she needed, and the whole city rang with her loveliness as
they looked on my work. I have never painted again. I came here. What of
that? An artist the less then, the world did not care; a life the less
soon, she will not care either!"
Then, as the words ended, a great wave of blood beat back his breath and
burst from the pent-up torture of his striving lungs, and stained
red the dark and silken masses of his beard.
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