The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1879-09-04

For ono who meets untimely death
Let all the bells of pity toll
A requiem for the poor ones soul;
And maybe God, Ger just and right,
Will bless and make her future bright
UNKNOWN ARTISTS.
The Rvmanccs Of Men Who Missed Their
Calling.
This is Il story which passed current
among the Partisan rapins almost thirty
years ago. heard it in Couture's atelier
in 1910, long before anyone took hold Of
the facts and woye them into romance.
"Once there was poor painter, (there
is nothing about poverty but this paint
CT was much worse of than poor in peck
ct, for he was AFFECT in art. He might
have made a passablc house painter, a
fair kalsominer, bnt nothing more. Such
miserable pictures as he produced Of good
pictures were caricaturcs Of design and
color. Of course, he starved. The man
had vices without end; he was gwen to
drink, was cnvious, quarrclsomc and
cheeky. 1t happened that in some haunt
| OF low pleasure he met a beautiful girl.
BY one Of those strange freaks Of chance,
shohad the face Of an angel and the heart
Of ticnd. The painter fell madly in
! loyc with her. But he had not money
enough to cater TO her caprices. Even
had his pockets been we'll lined, he was
so ugly and dirty that she repealed his
| advances with scorn. The man raved
over the perfection Of her profile, the
clear outline Of her face. The pouting
lips, the delicate curl of her nostril, the
arch of her brow, the folded conyolutions
Of her car, the rounded proportion OF her
neck, even the way the hair waved on the
temples and then swept down on her DIM
Piled shoulders, were craven in his mem
| DRY. He became quite crazed with love
He would have her picture, at least
some scmblance Of the woman to console
him. He daubcd canvas after canvas,
then tore them to pieces in disgust. At
last the scales dropped from his eyes,
when, for the first time, he felt sure that
he had mistaken his vocation. French
like, there came up in his mind ideas of
suicide. Still, the face of that frail bit of
womanhood haunted him. HIS last sou
had been expended in canvas and colors.
The walls Of his moldy garnet he scraped
and scratched until he whitcned them,
and with pits Of charcoal he tried to out
line the face. For days he toiled and
starved, One morning, wandering list
lessly through the suburbs of Paris, he
watched the digging Of a cellar. A thick
clay was being pitched into carts; it was
an unctuous blue mud. An idea seized
him. He took off his necktie-he had no
handkerchief-and stuffed 1t full Of this
clay he even filled his pockets to bullying
with it; and, faint and weary, recled home
to his garnet with his load. On ricket-
ty wash-stand he threw his heap Of soft
clay, and stepping his tattered rag of a
shirt in water, he threw it over the shape
less mass of dirt. There were some bits
Of lathing protruding, like ribs on skel-
eton, from the gaunt walls. Frcnzied
with fever, with clutched fingers and
bleeding nails he tore the bits of wood
and splintcrcd them into fragments.
Rudely fashioned some tools, and COM
menced the task Of modelling the mud.
The outlines of head came out. All day
he labored, until the form of the
woman he loved was indis-
tinctly visible. twas shutdown when he
gave over, and then, exhausted, he threw
himself at tho foot Of the bust, and burned
with hot fever through wild dreams
during the long night. Atdawn, though
fasting, weak and trembling, he centin-
ued his task. No! task it was not; it
was delight, Il pleasure; the work WAS
so easy. There was nothing to do over.
It was not an improvision. lie was not
giving III: Of himself away. His own
miraculous ease in catching every detail,
the uncrring certainty Of his hand, would
have, perhaps, had he been perfectly
sane, appalled, him. Every delicate
lineament was there. The nostrils had
their CULVER, the hair absolutely curlcd,
the pulsations Of the bosom were visible,
almost the breathing was audible, in that
lump Of dirt. The consciousness, the
certainty, came to him that it was u work
of art. lie had found his calling. He
would bc the great sculptor Of Pals.
Fortune, fame, honor would he his. But
he must show his work. He rushed into the
streets, and by chance met a sordid wretch
"a picture vampirc-for whom he had
toiled and starved. He clutched him by
the sleeve and dragged him to his garret
and showed the bust. There stood the
work-his creation. 1t was as beautiful.
as august, as proud in bearing, as Venus
of Milo.
"'Is that your work.
"It is.'
"'Then you arc the great coming artist
Of Paris, and will be the fashion. 1t is
simply divine. In painting you were
worse than cook whose art consists in
arraying cut carrots around bit of boiled
beet; III modelling you arc Thorwaldsen,
Canova. Pradier; whomesoever you please.
Sec here, my boy, it is pity you did not
use the right kind Of clay, for just as
soon as she dries, she will crumblc. You
can t, you know, always keep q moist
cloth over the bust, tor, in time, it dcfaccs
the purity Of the outlines. She is pref
ty enough to have special damp cham
Der built to keep her in. Now, sec YOU
here those old crusts you used to toast
those egg-and- spinach-things, those foil
age Oh tree all made up with number 80.
were, you must acknowledge a waste of
the raw material as re-screens the green
est provincial buyer got sick Of them.
! A., w nou, yOu oaSe StEuck your
Cahfornia: 1t is Pactolus for you and
for me am the Columbus Of your new
world, aud AS discovcrer I. plant nv
flag or bury my bag of gold in the new
! ground. Give me the monopoly of these
things. Turn me out only two a month,
twenty year, even dozen would suffice
that is not much-and we will saw
l,OOO francs month. I will man.
age exhibitions advertisements. Don't
look so stupid. Come down
stairs. Dip that old shirt of yours
in the basin again and cover her up. For
tunately there's no sun. Such divine
being as that ought to be draped in a
cashmere shawl, though: all the colors OF
the fabric were lost in the sleeping pro.
cess. Over glass of absiDthe We will