Huntington advertiser. [volume] (Huntington, W. Va.) 1874-1921, 1874-07-23
THE PAINTER OF NORMANDY.

Close to the outskirts of a quiet vii
Ilage in Normandy lived Dame Ga
brielle and her husband and poor lit
tie Hubert. From his birth he had
been a cripple; and the neighbor wo-
men had aye. pitied the lame boy
Dame Ursula, his aunt, had often
compared him in her own mind to
her own stalwart son, and wept sor-
rowful tears at his misfortune.
His father ever seemed to regard
him with a strange tenderness, and
caressed his boy with an almost timid
love. To him this boy with his
dreamy eyes and love of the beauti-
full, was a strange visitant from an
other world. He had not the beauti-
full faith of his wife, who often said
to her husband:
"God, who is all merciful, must
have saved some power of grace of
mind to compensate for the poor weak
body"
And little Hubert grew from baby
hood to childhood, scarcely conscious
of his misfortune, for the simple vii
lage folk were too kind hearted to
ever make him feel it; and living a
quiet, thoughtful life, his boyhood
was stealing away. Dame Agatha,
a dear old villager, never passed him
without giving him some little pres
ent Of cake with coriander seed in it.,
or one Of those wonderful combina-
tons of figs and sweetened dough,
with which she knew so well how TO
please the village children. And as
for his aunt. Dame Ursula, she never
omitted kissing him, even though she
had to put aside her bundles to do it.
1t was so pitiful to see any one who
could never be straight and tail like
her Biron.
And now Hubert could wall with
his cane, but slowly, all, 50 slowly =
The one great desire Of his heart was
to be a painter. The lovely lilies as
they budded, bloomed snd faded,
seemed calling on him to immortalize
their beauty With his brush. The ro-
81 morning, the golden sunset and
the purple night, ali cried to him in
that wild, passionate language that
only an artist car understand. There
lis no love Ike the love we give our
teachers. Tendcrer than the love OF
friends, more rcverent than the love
of brothers, and strong as the love OF
a mother, was the love Hubert bore
his teacher-Nature. Faithfully had
he studied their lessons, and lovingly
had he kept the record Of their com
munings. He found many hours in
which to WOO her, for while he mind
ed his fathers sheep, he watched her
many changing faces, and eveG while
he slept, when overcome with the
summer heat, vivid dreams and shapes
of loveliness trooped through his
brain. All his leisure moments were
speut in transferring them to can
vaSs.
The years flew quickly by, and
Hubert now had grown to be a pale
lad Of seventeen. His face was beau
tiful. Many paused for a second
look at the sweet face of the young
artist, but he hi nself paid little heed
to anything but his painting.
What most he now wished to do
was some work which he should leave
behind him as a proof of how dearly
he loved Nature. Thankful tor the
gifts that had been bestowed upon
him in his short life, he was now will
ing to give it back, stamped with the
immortal impress of his faithfulness
And while the blossoms still hung
sweet and fair in the gay orchards Of
smiling Normandy. Hubert's work
came to him. The old church IN his
native village was to be repaired, and
new paintings were needed for the
chancel windows. In one was to be
represented the figure Of Justice, and
grand was the form Hubert produced.
The clear face was calm and cold, as
she stood with bandared eyes and
drawn sword, holding her truthful
scales in her hand. But his real work
was the lovely form that in the oppo-
site window represented Mercy. The
dropping figure knelt with one hand
outstretched, as if deprecatlng the
uplifted sword of Justice, but her
other hand was extended, rs if to
cover, with the blessings that should
fall from her white, dropping fingers,
all weary souls that should seek her
through that chancel. Day after day
went by. The weeks heightened int
months, and continually the sweet
figure of Mercy grew more lovely and
more -lifelike. But day by day the
form of Hubert grew thinner, and the
sweet face paler and more spiritual.
The days of Autumn had come and
the first fruits of the orchard were
being gathered in, when one evening
in the purple twilight, Hubert's moth
er grew uneasy at the heightened alb
sence of her son, and passing dowr
the quiet street, she entered the ole
church. There sat her boy rs sht
half expected to find him. The las
faiut glow of the twilight fell through
the painted window on his pallld face
She called,-"My SOM
There was no movement of tn
nerveless figure, and halt expectin:
what she feared, she moved on, anC
gently touched the thin hand tha
still held the brush. The cold i'm
gers gave back no answering preSsur
to the passionate clasp she gave them
as, with no word, but breakin;