# The Pacific Monthly/Volume 1/Augustus Dana's Wife

AUGUSTUS DANA'S WIFE.
By LISCHEN M. MILLER.
IT WAS a surprise and something of a shock to us all when it was made known that the beautiful and brilliant Miss Sargent was going to be married to Augustus Dana.
Miss Sargent was far and away the brightest girl in our set. She came of an old Southern family whose blood was of the bluest, and had a modest fortune in her own right. She danced and sang and dressed to perfection, and rode as only a Southern woman can.
We were all in love with her, from big McArthurs, who was worth a million or so, and who owned a cattle ranch out in the Yellowstone country and a gold mine in Alaska, to little Tom Tresset, who did not have a cent to his name—but who, nevertheless, commanded respect on account of the marvelous things he could do with his brush. He was regarded as a coming man, a rising genius.
She might have had her choice of half a score of men with money or brains, or both, and she took—Augustus Dana.
She loved him. None of us doubted that. She was not the sort of a girl to marry without love—but the mystery of it was: Why? Why, or how, any woman with an ounce of gray matter could tolerate much less love such a blank idiot as Augustus Dana was something wholly beyond our comprehension. Of all the dumb fools that ever cumbered the earth he was the worst. True, he had a handsome enough face, barring its lack of expression, and a fairly good figure, and he managed to dress decently, thanks to a generous income and a treasure of a valet, but if he had a grain of sense or an atom of intellect not one of his friends or acquaintances ever found It out. "As dull as Dana," was a stock phrase among us.
How he got through college nobody knew, but get through he did, and drifted into society, where he became a fixture of just about as much force and influence as the brass knobs on a chandelier. One thing, however, he could do, and only one. He could draw with all the skill and correctness of an Andrea Delsarto, and he had a sort of gift for mixing colors. But he had no originality, and was absolutely ignorant of the first principles of art. His work was utterly lifeless and as correctly dull as himself. His studio—heaven save the mark—was crammed with faultless copies. But Miss Sargent believed in him. She said he had genius—that the world would awaken to a knowledge of this fact some day.
She was devoted to art. Not that she ever did anything in that line herself, you understand. She couldn't draw a cat so you could tell it from a cow, but she had the artistic temperament, and a finely educated taste. She knew a good thing when she saw it. That was why everybody was stricken breathless with amazement when she fell in love with Augustus Dana.
"She must be very far gone, indeed," Fisk remarked, when the news was talked over in the club, "if she can discover the earmarks of genius in those dead things Augustus Dana calls his pictures."
"If she wanted to marry an artist," gloomily meditated Tresset, "why didn't she take—"
"Tommy Tresset," Colton interrupted. "My dear boy, it's Dana himself she is in love with. She looks at his painting through love's magic glasses. Art doesn't stand the ghost of a chance when Cupid's in the field."
The engagement was brief. They were married quietly and went abroad for a year. "She'll be sick enough of his 'genius' by the time they get home," Fisk predicted. But presently rumors began to reach us concerning the remarkable success of an American artist in Rome. Then it was Paris, and the rumor took a more definite form, and came to read, "Dana, the American," who was agitating art circles in the Old World by reason of his wonderful paintings, which were said to rival in power and originality of conception the best works of the old masters.
​"Dana — A. Dana," mused Pisk. "Can't be Augustus."
"Do you know," put in little Tresset, "I fancy it is."
"Yes," added Colton, disgustedly. "The foreigners are doubtless fascinated by his unique and monumental stupidity. They probably regard him as an art-freak and pay tribute to his dullness."
"They're a lot of blank fools over there, anyway," Fisk rejoined.
But when toward the end of the twelve-month McArthurs, who had been over, returned from Paris, he struck us all dumb by announcing that A. Dana was not only our Augustus but that he justly deserved his rapidly growing fame.
"You know," said Tresset, who was the first to find his tongue after this amazing piece of information had been imparted to us, "he always could draw, and his handling of color was not bad."
"Well," resumed McArthurs, "he has somehow caught the soul of the thing, as they say over there, and the results are simply marvelous. I'm not given to rhap- sodizing, as you perhaps know, and I don't go in for art as a rule, but his picture of the young mother dreaming of her child's future while she rocks the cradle is a thing I cannot get out of my mind."
Fisk regarded him meditatively. "Who sat for the mother in that picture?" he asked, and everybody save McArtnurs smiled. McArthurs pretended not to hear. Fisk went on.
"His wife was right after all. Love is not always blind, it seems. Eh, Colton? Discerning the latent spark with the eye of true affection, she has fanned it to a flame."
In the course of time the young couple returned to us, and Augustus set up a studio in the elegant little place they took possession of on B— street.
If Mrs. Dana had been charming as Miss Sargent, she was irresistible now. It was perfectly plain to everybody that she adored her handsome, stupid husband. There was something absurdly touching in her devotion and in her silent insist- ence upon his being recognized as a genius. Fisk declared that she would breathe for him if it were possible. As for Gus, he appeared to take her tender worship as a matter of course. He was no doubt fond
of her in his dull fashion. He had not im- proved, so far as any of us were able to discern. His success in art had not bright- ened his mental faculties to any noticeable extent. He was the same well-dressed blockhead that we had known and ridi- culed in his bachelor days, before he had acquired greatness.
"Do you know," said Tom Tresset, 'if it wasn't quite out of the question, I'd be inclined to suspect his wife of painting his pictures herself."
"It is quite out of the question," growled McArthurs, glaring savagely. "It's well you put in that saving clause."
"Certainly, certainly," said Fisk, hasten- ing to pour oil on the troubled waters. "Mrs. Dana is beyond suspicion. But he draws his inspiration from her. Nobody who knows them doubts that."
"Nobody wants to," grumbled McAr- thurs, and departed gloomily. Mac was daily growing less companionable. He had almost entirely dropped out of our little circle. He said "gossip" bored him. As if we gossiped! It was our custom to meet in a retired corner and discuss mat- ters in general — but gossip? never!
The truth is, McArthurs had been hard hit, and he did not get over it. He al- lowed his disappointment to sour him.
However, we all understood the situa- tion and sympathized in a way. But we agreed tacitly that Mrs. Dana was not the woman to heal the wounds which she had unconsciously inflicted as Miss Sargent. And we did homage to the colossal pow- ers of inspiration that could put life into the work of that inanimate clod, Augustus Dana. We were dumb with admiration before his beautiful canvases, where the figures seemed to live and breath, and the color was a dream.
It was apparent to every one that Mrs. Dana had lost much of the splendid phys- ical vitality that had been one of the charms of her girlhood, but she had gained in spirituality and in that subtle some- thing about which the poets rave. She was almost frail in figure, but full of an intense fire that seemed to burn more clearly day by day.
They had been married about three years, maybe longer, when Dana began work upon what, it speedily became noised about, was to be his masterpiece. Nobody ​knew just what the subject was, but it was pretty generally conceded to be something quite out of the common. His wife was brimming with enthusiasm about the new picture. It obtruded itself in her conversation at every tarn. She seemed unable to talk of anything else. If she had been a less beautiful and attractive woman, this weakness would have been a bore. As it was, we all caught the infection, and Dana's new picture was the theme for general discussion everywhere and at all seasons. It came up at teas, dinners, receptions, in the clubroom and on the street. Whenever you saw two or more people earnestly engaged in conversation, you might be sure they were talking about the picture.
As it neared completion the interest intensified. Along about this time Mrs. Dana's health began to fail. Colton was called in. His father has been the Dana's family physician before either he or Gus came into the world, and he naturally took the place left vacant by the old doctor's death.
Now Colton was always something of a mystic, had all sorts of notions about occult influences, etc. Perhaps this had something to do with his diagnosis of Mrs. Dana's case. She had been gradually losing ground for several months. It was early in May when she took to her bed. Colton was deeply interested. He spent as much time at the house as he could possibly spare, but, in spite of all his efforts, she made no progress toward recovery.
She did not suffer, at least she never complained of either pain or discomfort, but it was evident to all that she grew daily weaker. She would lie for hours in her darkened room without speaking or moving, but with an intent, eager look upon her face.
The great picture was nearly finished now. Dana spent most of his time in the studio. He came in to see his wife every evening. She would put her arms, grown pitifully thin, up around his neck, and hold his face close against her own as if she could never let him go. But she always sent him away early. He must have rest after his hard day's work, and nothing must be suffered to interfere with progress of the picture.
The atmosphere of the sickroom was apt to prove depressing,, she said, and refused to allow him to sit with her more than a brief half hour.
Love! I tell you there's nothing in all this world as tender and strong and true as the love of woman. It reaches as high as heaven and down to the depths of hell. It is the miracle-maker of the universe.
One evening toward the last of the month Fisk and I were strolling down the street on which the Danas lived, when we saw Colton's brougham dash up to their door and stop. Colton himself sprang out and ran up the steps. He had evidently been sent for in haste, for the door was opened before he had time to ring.
"She must be worse," remarked Fisk. Yet none of us at that time dreamed that she was in any immediate danger.
We went on to the club, where we were to dine together. Tom Tresset was standing on the clubhouse steps.
"Hello! heard the news?" he cried. We had not heard any news and said so.
"The picture is finished."
"At last?"
"At last! Saw Dana this afternoon. He was just putting in the final touches."
"Did you see it?"
"No, but he's asked the lot of us for tomorrow. Said it was his wife's idea—keeping it dark this way. She hasn't seen it herself—hasn't been inside his studio since he began work on it. Funny, isn't it, when she's so wrapped up in him and his pictures?"
"She is sick, you know."
"Yes, that's true. Well, Gus wants us to come up tomorrow morning and look at the thing — says his wife wants us to come."
"By the way," said Fisk, "I'm afraid Mrs. Dana's not so well today. We saw Colton rushing in there as we came along."
"That so? Wonder why Colton don't brace her up with his tonics and stuff, and get her out again. It's deucedly dull without her."
The hour had grown late. None of us realized that it was after midnight till McArthurs came in. He looked pale and disturbed.
"What's up, Mac? You look as if you had just come from an interview with a ghost?" cried Fisk.
​"I met Colton outside. He was on his way home from Dana's house. Mrs. Dana died this evening," and McArthurs turned and left us before we had recovered from the shock of this sad news sufficiently to put a single question.
But we got the particulars later from Colton. They had sent for him at the first apprehension of danger. Mrs. Dana, the nurse said, had rested well all day. Somewhere near 5 o'clock in the afternoon she turned upon her pillow, clasped her hands under her pale cheek and sighed softly. The nurse leaned over and spoke to her, but she only smiled contentedly and did not answer.
Shortly after this, Dana entered the room. She had made him promise to come to her the moment the picture was finished. He went close to the low couch upon which she was lying. "Is she asleep?" he asked the nurse. "No, I think not," was the reply, and he called her gently two or three times by name. She did not make any response; did not even seem to hear, only lay there with half-shut eyes, smiling sweetly. They tried in vain to rouse her, and, at length, becoming alarmed, sent hurriedly for Colton, who could do nothing when he arrived.
The end came with the twilight. Exhausted vitality, Colton said it was, but he had a theory as to the cause which he did not announce to the public, the truth of which, strange and incredible as it seemed to us then — he told McArthurs and me only, I believe — was seemingly proven by subsequent events.
Dana never painted another picture. That one whose completion was marked by the close of a noble life, was his last. I don't mean by this that he shut up shop. It would have been better for his reputation as a genius if he had. On the contrary, he continued to paint as industriously as ever, but his work was dead and dull as ditchwater.
He had lost his inspiration, but he never seemed to realize it. 1 think he missed his wife and mourned for her as deeply as a man of his sort could, but he married again in the course of a couple of years, and was quite as content with the frivolous fashion-plate who became the second Mrs. Dana as he had been with the rare creature whose love had inspired him to the point of greatness.
That was Colton's theory — that inspiration business. He held that through her abiding faith and affection she had unconsciously influenced him to paint the beautiful conceptions of her own artistic soul. That all the living loveliness his skilled brush transferred to canvas had birth and being in her fertile brain and fervid heart. "Love's unconscious telepathy," he called it. He claimed that Dana, being a mere negative, without force or originality, had readily acted as a medium through which her wonderful visions found form and expression. Her love was of a nature so deep and tender and unselfish — so full of faith in him — as to impel, to irresistibly impel, him to become for the time the artist she believed him to be.
But the delicate cords of life had snapped under the strain of such exalted spiritual pressure. She died and never knew that she had sacrificed herself for — Augustus Dana.
LOVE'S REMEMBRANCE.
I.
Sometimes across the written page,
Whereon the ink is wet,
A message flashes, and I know
That love cannot forget.
II.
Sometimes in silence of the night
Dear eyes respond to mine,
And all the darkness slips away,
And — I am only thine.
III.
Nor time nor space nor circumstance
Can faithful hearts divide —
Though half the world should lie between
"Love's ever at love's side."
—Lischen M. Miller.