Rawlings Institute - Hits and Bits Yearbook (Charlottesville, VA)

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tbetsteps died away. I-Ier inte1'est in her work was gone. She dismissed her model and sank into her chair before the unfinished picture. As the model went out she called her back. Pardon me, she said hesitatingly, but you-you must have known great sorrow. Will you tell me? N I have loved and lostf' replied she, quietly, wrapping her shawl with quiet dignity around hcr thin tbrm. And before Mademoiselle could speak f'urther she had left the room. Mademoiselle gazed long at the piettu'e. The words I have Im-ed and lost haunted hcr. I told him I had never loved. That was true in one sense, for I have never loved until nom. I know my own heart at last. I love tny professor. I have been too absorbed in my work to think about love before. But Iiove is stronger than Art, and will claim its power. How handsome, how flistiugzte, he is! I wou- dct' why I love him 2' I who have heretofore spoken of' love as a waste ot' time. I wonder what he would think if he knew I loved him ? Strange that my first taste of love should be eonnningled with sorrow. Is it fated so Z' Will renunciation be my forced lot? How earnestly he advised me to lay aside love if' it came to me, in order that I win success in art. Is it worth the price? My heart says no ,- my reason hesitates. But would hc have said that if' he knew I loved him? Or did he guess? Ah, there is the pang ! She arose and went to a mirror. The smooth surface reflected a sweet, earnest fi1ce,lighted by soulful eyes. Soft brown hair waved back from a broad white forehead. No, I am not ugly, she said to herself, after criticizing her reflection for awhile, I am even pretty. He is an artist, I an1 glad I'm not ugly, for artists love beauty. Art, has ruled my life until now. Its power has fled 3 Love has triumphed. I will make him love me, and he will tllell confess that he was wrong-that Life's best gift is love, not fame. .Viz Chen' Ilhrdentofsrlle: - I trust you will pardon my almsenee from your studio on last lesson day when I tell you that I only arrived in Paris this A. M., after a visit of several days to my mother at C'lnny. Mademoiselle, you asked me on my last visit to your studio if I had ever paid the price cfsuccess in art, and I told youI had never had an opportunity. Do you remember? Mademoiselle, I have paid the price now. The success is yet to come. I :nn engaged to he married. The wedding day is set-not far distant. This statement seems incompatible, lifes!-1-1: pus! I.ct me explain. I will marry not for love, hut to please my mother. It is the dearest wish of her heart that I should marry this young lady, a prolegec of hers. She loves me. I will make two people happy, hut not myself. Since I last saw you l realize that I do love sonmlmdy-liettel' even than I love my life, better even than I love art. I feel, I know, that I have the power to make her love me. But she has the latent genius of a ,great artist. One day that power will be awakened. I feel that I eould make her ltappyg I myself would be supremely happy. Ilut was ever .Xrt's greatest achievements due to happiness ? No, as I said before, all true artists have a price to pay. Art is an idol to whom we must ollcr the saeriliee of all that we hold deat'. Must I spoil her career-her opportunity of winning fame--the praise of future ages, for the sake of mere earthly happiness 1' Nog I love her well enough to give her up. All told. The price is hitter. If for myself alone I paid it, it would not be paid. It is for hersakc I am strong. Do you wonder that I tell you this? You must-yea, I know you will-understand. Need I say more Z' My seeret is yours. Yours faithfully, Paornsson B. P. S.--I will call for my criticisms at the usual hour. Over and over she read the letter. At last she realized and understood all. She took out her paints and brushes as one in a dream. In a few moments the model came in. She stared

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There must be something else. Maybe I have not a soul that can understand another soul well enough to paint with feeling. ff Mademoiselle, he said abruptly, 4' have you ever loved? The girl turned her head and looked through the window out over the roofs of' Paris to where the distant Seine sparkled on its 77 seaward way. She paused a few moments before she replied: Xen, mon Profes.s-cm-, I don't think I have ever loved, at least- Ah ! then your inspiration will come. That is what is lacking in your work. But it has its price. lVhen you have given your hea1't's desire in vain you can paint Iiove's despair. VVhen you have felt the bitterest sorrow, when you have given all, lost all, suffered all, then the inspiration will come that will enable you to know and paint the human soul. Such is the price all pay who have their names written in the Book of Fame. Mademoiselle's face had grown very pale. Her heartis secret, only half' acknowledged, made itself known to her at that moment. The awakening had come. The ending? Must love prove ill vain ? Let Love be glad, for pain is cruel. Ab, mon 1'rQfessc1tr. ' she said tremulouslyg His it 'worth the price f' XVorth the price. There is but one answer to every true artist. A thousand times, yes. Yea, count yourself' blessed if it is permitted you to suffer in order that the divine spark of' inspi- ration may be yours. What is the fleeting pleasure of love com- pared to the glory of' a great achievement? The desire for pleasure is selfish-the ambition to glorify life, to develope the highest in one that humanity may be uplifted, is heavenly. God does not make all artists. If' I-Ie has given you talent, it is your duty to develope that talent. NVhen sorrow comes, count yourself' for- tunate that you will thus be enabled to reach the highest plane of' your workf, U You talk as if' sorrow were certain to be my lot. Perhaps I may escape. VVho knows?. Life has given me no thorns among my roses thus far, she said with assumed lightness. U lVell, Mademoiselle, if' you escape sorrow, as you express it, you will also lose your chance of' becoming a great artist. Clmeun, it son goztt, but for my part I'd rather be the greatest artist of my time than a mere butterfly of a sunlit day seeking pleasure. Pleasure is not the highest aim. Sorrow is always a blessing in disguise. Take my advice, mn. chez-c 616110, and if' great love or great joy be yours to have, lay it aside, and achieve the highest and best in art. Is it not worth the price? H l'm'zlonnez-moi that weakness in asking such a question. Only a woman could ask that. You are a man. It is harder for a woman to lay love aside than it is for a man. But, as you say, it must surely be worth while.', 4' Then spoke the true artist. One is not worthy to be an artist unless one is brave enough to pay the price. And now I must go. Persevere, my pupil. You have a good model, though a hard subject. At some moment when you're not expecting it the inspi- ration may come. NVe know not what awaits us 3 no, not even what a day or an hour may bring forth. Au revoirf, As he was leaving the room Mademoiselle called him back. if Monsieur, excuse me, but have you ever paid the price? U I have not been so fortunate as to have had the opportunity, he said, and the next moment he was gone. Mademoiselle remained motionless until the last echo of his

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curiously at the artist's white, stonily calm face, but said nothing. Mademoiselle began to paint. Surelyno1e, if ever, the inspira- tion will be given meg I too have loved and lost. N Oh, God l she prayed, help me to paint 'Levels Despair' before I die. What the model must have felt I feel now. Help me to make the pictured face tell her story and minef' She painted steadily for an hour and laid her brushes aside. She dismissed her model, and when she was left alone, sank into a chair and gazed long at the picture. At last! at last! Her work was finished. The long wished for expression was there. All,-not one shade was lacking. Where was the joy that should have been hers? She felt it not. Oh, I,ove's Despair! Art cannot fill a woman's life. Love alone can do that. Nllhen love is taken til0l'C is nothing left. Oh, the wide emptiness of life without it, the wide emptiness that all the successes, all the triumphs of art could never fill. H It is perfect, she said, gazing on her work, but I have paid the price, oh, Levels Despair l Falling on her knees, she buried her face in her hands. IVithout was thc hustle and noise of ,l.'aris-wicked, restless Paris, within was quiet, and later, peace. An hour later the Professor entered the wtclicr. He entered almost hesitatingly. After his letter, he dreaded this first interview with her. He stood spellbound when he entered the room. Facing him was the picture on the easel, a masterpiece.. The face stood out from the canvas, warm and full of life. The mournful eyes gazed into his own as if asking, what is joy? The sorrow that too deep for tears lingered in the curves of the pathetic lips. It was a triumph of art. At last! at last ! he cried exultingly, f' you have won fame, fortune, Mademoiselle! NVhat! not weeping over your success? Arise, let me congratulate you l I-Ie endeavored to raise her from her kneeling position. In vain ! Her cheeks were cold with the icy hue of death, her lips speechless, fixed iu a strange, inscrutable smile. In the greatest alarm he carried l1er to the sofa and tried to rub warmth into her cold hands, pressing passionate kisses on her pale lips. Ybo late .' All was in vain. Oh, my God ! was it for this I sacrificed you? you, my best-beloved I Oh, speak to 1ne! speak to me l if just one word to tell me you forgive me for my great mistake ! Dead ! dead! dead l Like an echo came the question she had asked him, Is it worth the price? E. Ir. M. QE?