Portfolio

My lady sitteth on a shrineAnd dreameth beauteously.She dreameth much, her deep eyes shineLike stars on a quiet sea.And to watch her hands so soft and whiteIs a never-ending, sweet delight.Lady of Day, Lady of Night,Queen of the World is she.FRANK D. ASHBURN.

My lady sitteth on a shrine

And dreameth beauteously.

She dreameth much, her deep eyes shine

Like stars on a quiet sea.

And to watch her hands so soft and white

Is a never-ending, sweet delight.

Lady of Day, Lady of Night,

Queen of the World is she.

FRANK D. ASHBURN.

The smoking-room gave a terrific lurch. As if the motion had been a signal, Carlos Bentley abruptly broke off his sentence, at the same time removing his hand from the arm of his companion’s chair. Although the big steamer recovered almost immediately from the unexpected blow, Carlos continued to remain silent, his gaze wandering uncertainly around the comfortable room. But he did not notice particularly the brown sleekness of the leather chairs nor the subtle masculinity of the lighting. He was wondering whether he had not again let his tongue run away with his good taste in allowing it to run on over the history of his past two weeks to this gentleman to whom he had introduced himself. That was one of Carlos’bête-noirs—a cheerful frankness and lack of reserve that made him communicate things he wished later he had kept to himself. But after all the fellow had looked lonely and— A polite question which interrupted his train of thought finished by driving the self-reproaches from his mind. He answered the question at some length.

“Oh, yes! We spent six months in Paris. I got to know the place quite well—well enough to get tired of it. I’m looking forward to New York as a change. If it hadn’t been for my wife, I’d have come back before, but she insisted on our staying—for my own good, she said. You see, I went over to study art—portraits mainly. Spent hours every day looking at pictures and trying to copy them.”

“Do you plan to take up art as a profession?” asked his companion, knocking the ashes from his pipe. He was an elderly man who had an air of demanding confidences with a view of solving any difficulties connected with them from the depths of a thoughtful urbanity.

Carlos hesitated a moment.

“Yes,” he said finally, “I expect to. That’s my ultimate aim. But, of course, after all this studying I’ll want a bit of a rest—say a month or so. Then I’ll be ready to get down to work.”

The other nodded a thoughtful assent. Then—

“You’ll pardon the remark, but—you have an income, I take it.”

Bentley nodded.

“Very fortunate, very fortunate indeed. So many poor devils have to start with literally nothing but their talent. You’re unusually blessed. Well, I must be getting to bed. We dock early to-morrow, I believe. I’ve enjoyed talking to you immensely, and you’ll pardon my leaving so abruptly, won’t you? Good-night.”

Carlos stood gazing after him a moment; then, turning away, went off in the direction of his own stateroom. He had an uneasy feeling that the man had not quite approved of him, although he was unable to explain what he himself had said that could have given ground for such an opinion.

When he got to his stateroom, he found a message that his wife had left on his bureau before going to bed. It had come by wireless that evening and was from his father. On opening it, he read:

“Meet you at pier. Glad you are settling down to work at last.Dad.”

“Meet you at pier. Glad you are settling down to work at last.

Dad.”

Carlos laughed softly. Just like his father to mention work, even in a wireless. It occurred to him that everyone, ever sincehe was a boy, had been wanting him to work. They had all told him what great things they expected of his talent if he would only use it. His mother had cherished a letter from a boyhood schoolmaster, which dwelt in glowing terms on his artistic ability, while at the same time it decried his indolence. His wife had refused many suitors as importunate and more wealthy than he because she was in love with him, and believed that her love could make him fight for the success which was expected of him. Well, his father was right—it was time to start work. They had had enough disappointments in him, and now he must do something to make them proud of him. It wouldn’t be hard.

In an exceedingly virtuous mood Carlos bent over and kissed his sleeping wife. What a wonderful girl Eloise was, and what a trump to have believed in him enough to have married him. He would work as he never had before as soon as they got settled in New York. With which resolutions he got into bed to dream of painting portraits for the kings and queens of Europe.

Four months later in a studio-apartment in the low Fifties a wet paint-brush was hurled viciously at a small statue of the Laocoon. It struck the largest figure full in the face with a comforting smack, and clattered to the floor. Carlos Bentley had been trying to do a portrait. Eloise, who in lieu of a regular model had been sitting for him, started at the sound, then relaxed her pose. She was an appealing figure with a touch of dynamic force in the aggressive tilt of her chin that made Carlos, jokingly and yet half-seriously, call her his will-power; at this moment she seemed to be bracing herself as if to meet something.

“Why, Carlos dear, what is the matter?” she asked, approaching her husband doubtfully.

Carlos stood before a half-finished picture removing his painting jacket, which he hurled into a corner before turning to his wife.

“I’m going to stop,” he said impatiently. “I don’t seem to feel in a mood for it to-day somehow. Besides we’ve been working for quite a while and we need a rest.” His eyes met hers half-defiantly, as if he were expecting some remonstrance. Thenhe added, “Come on down to a show, dear. We can do some more to-night on this.”

His wife turned away.

“I don’t care to go down, Carlos,” she answered slowly, “and I had hoped you’d want to work this afternoon. We’ve only been up here a little over an hour. Won’t you stay a little longer? You were just beginning to get the right feeling in the picture. I know you were.”

Carlos laughed and kissed her.

“There’s plenty of time for the picture and it’s too wonderful an afternoon to stay indoors. I’m going out for a walk. Sorry you won’t come.” He slammed the door as he went out.

Eloise sat down dejectedly on a straight chair. Her lips trembled until she could hardly keep from crying. For seven weeks this same thing had happened continuously until she was sick to death of trying to fight against it. Every day Carlos had alternated playing around the city with attempts to work which always ended like to-day. In all that time he had only finished one picture—but it had been good, and had shown the talent that was being wasted. If only she knew some way to touch the spark to that talent. Eloise found herself wondering whether perhaps she had not undertaken a task too difficult even for her love. It seemed as if Carlos utterly lacked the requisite energy to produce what he was capable of. With a sigh she turned to putting the studio in order.

Meanwhile Carlos, after wandering out onto the street, had set off in the direction of the park. The refreshing air of a sunny autumn afternoon soon cleared his brain, but there was still an uneasy feeling in the back of his mind. He felt that he ought to be working, yet was unable to, and he knew vaguely that he was not happy even in the freedom of the moment. In this contradictory frame of mind he entered the park, strolling aimlessly along the walks, where the park-loungers basked in the unexpected warmth, and nurse-maids and children tried to make the best of each other’s company. Carlos, deep in thought, paid little attention to anyone unless some child inadvertently threatened to collide with him, when he would start, step aside, and relapse again into his reverie.

It was during one of these lapses that Carlos failed to note the appearance of a phenomenon. This consisted of a very dirty girl who was leading—or being led by—a little white dog on a long rope, who, strangely enough, was as clean as his mistress was dirty. The two came charging down the path toward Carlos, evidently expecting to go past him on the left. But just before they reached him, the little dog with all the unexpectedness of little dogs darted to the right. The next moment Carlos was startled to feel his feet being jerked backward and wound up tightly in several yards of cotton clothesline on one end of which was a little girl, who was the most striking surprise of all. In spite of an evident absence of any recent ablution her features had a peculiarly charming grace which was surprising under the circumstances and so pleasant that Carlos found suddenly that he wanted to paint it.

When the child straightened up from her task of unwinding the little white dog, which she now held in her arms, she was adorable as she tried confusedly to explain and apologize for what had happened.

“Never mind that—I don’t appear to be any the worse. But would you mind telling me your name?”

The vision was entirely agreeable.

“It’s Rosalie,” she replied. “At least I think so. I haven’t no father or mother. I live with Aunt Bess, but Toots is my dog.”

“I’d like to paint a picture of you, Rosalie. That’s my business, you see; I’m an artist—or supposed to be. Do you think your aunt would let you come up to my house to-morrow afternoon, and would you like to?”

The child stared open eyed, but she quickly assimilated the facts. Her reply was frank.

“Sure I would. Aunt Bess don’t care where I go. Will you have some cookies? What do you want to paint me for?”

“Yes, there might be something to eat. Then you will come? That’s fine. My house is at 16 West 5—th Street. Can you remember that, Rosalie?” The child nodded. “Then I’ll expect you at two o’clock to-morrow afternoon.”

Carlos walked home in high spirits. The child’s face had so impressed him that it seemed as if he could never wait till thenext day. Eloise was still at the apartment. To her he recounted his find in such glowing terms that she began to share his enthusiasm and help him make his plans.

“We’ll have to give her a bath,” he said cheerfully. “She’s horribly dirty. And we’ve got to find out whether she can come regularly. But we can do that to-morrow. Let’s celebrate to-night. I know a wonderful little restaurant. By the way, her name’s Rosalie.”

They were still talking about the child when they returned late in the evening.

The next afternoon at a quarter of two the bell rang, and Rosalie was announced by a shocked and protesting doorman. Shortly after Rosalie herself appeared. Believing it her duty to do her best to make the picture a success, and feeling that the occasion demanded something out of the ordinary, the child had worn her best clothes and even gone to the length of a somewhat tentative washing. The dress—it was her Sunday one, she explained—was hideous, but Eloise, who was as fascinated by the child as her husband had been, with infinite tact persuaded her to put on some things they had bought for her the afternoon before.

Posing the child presented little difficulty. All Carlos asked was to have her sit in a little rocker with an open picture book in her lap, which Rosalie did with such a natural grace and unembarrassed manner that she might have been sitting in little rockers for her picture all her life. Her hair, which Eloise had loosened, hung in long curls that completely covered her shoulders, and from which the exquisite little face looked out like an ivory miniature in a golden frame. As he gazed speechless at the effect, Carlos knew that at last he had found his inspiration. He began feverishly to sketch in the first rough outlines of the portrait.

As long as the light lasted he worked rapidly, looking up at the child on the platform where the chair had been placed and down to the canvas, as he touched it with quick, sure strokes. Sometimes he paused, seemingly forgetful of the picture, looking for long intervals at the girl as if to draw her whole personality out of herself and place it on the canvas. Finally Rosalie began to become more and more restless, until Eloise was forced to interrupt the work.

“You’ll have to stop now, dear,” she said. “The poor child is tired out and it’s too dark now, anyway.”

Carlos paid no attention, but went on painting. All he said was, “Tell her to sit still. Can’t stop now.”

But at last she persuaded him to lay aside his brushes, so that Rosalie could go home, after promising faithfully to return the next afternoon. Carlos was triumphant.

“It’s going to be the best thing I ever did. The kid gets into me in a way I can’t explain, but I’m putting it in the picture.”

For two weeks the child came almost every day and each time the picture advanced further. Carlos had been right—it was the best thing he had ever done, incomparably the best. To Eloise, who in the months in Paris had gained a good critical knowledge of pictures, it was evident that it was a masterpiece. The feeling of greatness was in it; in the perfection of the body, in the grace of the pose, and most of all in the face. There was something so compelling about the personality of that face, that Eloise would often sit and look at it alone when Carlos had gone out. It was the only time she was ever alone with it, for if he were in the apartment, he spent all his time in the studio.

Then one late afternoon after Rosalie had left, Carlos said:

“One more day, Eloise. Just one more day and it will be done. To-morrow night I’ll be satisfied with it—I’ll even be a little proud of it, because it is good, isn’t it?”

And Eloise nodded happily. For the past two weeks she had been happier than she had ever been before, and now she was too overcome to speak.

The next day Rosalie did not come, although they waited impatiently all afternoon. Carlos tried to go on with the picture from memory, but gave up in disgust. Without the child he was unable to go any further. When she did not appear the next day, Carlos became desperate. The picture was so tantalizingly near completion, yet there was something to be added, something indefinite which he could not name and the lack of which left him dissatisfied and uneasy. He went to the house where she had said she lived, but even the aunt had gone, and no one knew anything about either of them. For a week, two weeks, Carlos alternately waited in the studio and made fruitless attempts to locate thechild. When Eloise, fearing he would go mad with impatience, tried to make him work on other pictures, he seemed unable to concentrate for long on anything. The old indolence had returned with a new force which he was unable and half-unwilling to overcome; for the child was the only thing that could fill him with that burning desire to paint that had driven him on, often in spite of himself.

Carlos refused to give up the hope that she might yet return. For hours in the afternoon he would go up to the studio, and, putting on his painting jacket, sit gazing hopelessly at the picture, or make sudden attempts that were over almost as soon as begun to complete the portrait. Fall passed—the fall that had so nearly brought realization—and winter came. The studio became dark early in the afternoons, and no childish laugh returned to lighten the dusk.

STANLEY MILLER COOPER.

Pine tree, pine tree,Pointing to the sky,Your branches are all nakedAnd all your leaves are dry.Pine tree, pine tree,And did you reach too high,And did your soul grow weary,Leaving you to die?Pine tree, pine tree,In my heart I knowYou are pointing out to usThe way we should not go.WILLIAM TROY.

Pine tree, pine tree,Pointing to the sky,Your branches are all nakedAnd all your leaves are dry.

Pine tree, pine tree,

Pointing to the sky,

Your branches are all naked

And all your leaves are dry.

Pine tree, pine tree,And did you reach too high,And did your soul grow weary,Leaving you to die?

Pine tree, pine tree,

And did you reach too high,

And did your soul grow weary,

Leaving you to die?

Pine tree, pine tree,In my heart I knowYou are pointing out to usThe way we should not go.

Pine tree, pine tree,

In my heart I know

You are pointing out to us

The way we should not go.

WILLIAM TROY.

Back to Index Next